


The Unsayable Sums

by frostian



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen, I'm friends with Ambassador Kosh., M/M, Second RPF, also AU, so if this is anywhere near the truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 59,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27791203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostian/pseuds/frostian
Summary: Jared Padalecki has finally realized the American Dream.  Fame, fortune, and adoration are at his fingertips: all he has to do is deny who he is.   It isn't long before his deception catch up to him, and in one night he, his friends, and complete strangers will pay a bloody price for his choices, and not everyone will survive.
Relationships: JA/JP - Relationship
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from my ancient Live Journal.

**August, 2000  
Washington, DC**

Sterling K. Brown, retired First Lieutenant of the United States Army, actually considered a tactical retreat as the saleswoman took another surreptitious glance at him and his uniform. He kicked himself for wearing it on such a hot day. Sterling had calculated the rush hour traffic into his schedule and didn't think he could make it to the event in time if he swung by his apartment. But, for some miraculous reason, Highway 395 stood nearly empty so he reached Borders Bookstore in less than half the time he'd expected.

Sterling saw the same saleswoman peek over a book display and wondered if she wanted to ask him out on a date or question where his unit was assigned to. Having people stare at him, no matter how politely, made the soldier nervous and Sterling tapped his book against his thigh in order to calm himself. He craned his neck around the giant standing in front of him and counted only three people ahead of him. The woman in front looked like she was having the time of her life and didn't care about the people behind her, all wanting to see her dragged away for taking her sweet time. She finally left, her face aglow with what looked like puppy love to Sterling. As if to make up for her loitering, the two men in line after her only asked for Ackles' autograph and didn't bother to make small talk.

Sterling finally reached his favorite author, Jensen R. Ackles, the latest wunderkind of the literary world. His first reaction was to blink rapidly in surprise. Ackles was supposed to be twenty-two years old. The freckles and the wide, innocent eyes made him look about fifteen.

"That's some impressive hardware you have there, Lieutenant," Ackles said, his voice surprisingly deep when contrasted against his youthful face.

"I hope they are: I earned them the hard way," Sterling answered.

Ackles stared at him and for a moment Sterling was overwhelmed with the suspicion that the writer of _Faithless_ knew exactly who he was and what he did for a living. Without another word Ackles took his well-worn book and scribbled something much longer than just his name across the title page.

"Thank you," Sterling said as he took back his book.

"Take care, Sir," Ackles said with sincerity.

Sterling gave a small nod and left the bookstore. He waited until he was in his Honda Civic before reading what Ackles had written. Sterling felt touched and wondered where the words had come from. His cell rang, interrupting his musings.

"Hello?" Sterling said.

"It's Manners. I was wondering if you made a decision regarding my offer."

"I did. I would like to join your company."

"That sounds mighty fine," Manners replied, his voice warm with triumph.

"I would also like to take the option of signing up for the full retirement package."

"Good choice. I'll contact you when everything is finalized at this end. I really do look forward to seeing what you're capable of."

"You won't be disappointed," Sterling said and hung up. It was only later, when he was sitting in his studio apartment, that what he had done finally caught up with him.

Sterling stared at the shelves full of commendations and pictures of his supposed friends from Fort Myer. He had honestly thought that he had a good chance to become a Delta operator; that his superiors and his fellow soldiers would cheer him on and would be proud of their Lieutenant when he was accepted by the most elite branch of the Army. Instead, what he found was same old prejudices and petty rivalries that would turn any decent human being into a cynical monster.

Though African American soldiers were vital to the military, their numbers were next to none in the special forces. Many reasons were given for this disproportionate representation and Sterling's heard them all save one: racism. And when he brought up that subject, he suddenly found himself the odd man out. Realizing his career in the military was officially dead, Sterling had little choice but to retire. In the last six weeks he had interviewed for over thirty positions in various offices in Washington, but no politician wanted a black man who knew his rights and wasn't afraid to fight for them.

It was today that Sterling finally realized he couldn't even find a job mopping the fucking floors of the Pentagon because of what he had done. This revelation finally drove him to accept Manners' offer. Sterling had heard a great deal about the recruiter, most of it probably bullshit, but the former soldier knew for certain that Manners ran a black bag operation out of his company alongside his more legitimate business of providing security to various corporations around the globe. Sterling also believed that Manners had carte blanche as far as the Pentagon and the CIA were concerned because he also supplied the muscles necessary to do the jobs that no United States soldier could be caught doing. Sterling guessed some of the more _delicate_ assignments were carried out in South America, quite a few in Europe, probably Bosnia and its troubled neighbors.

Sterling didn't know who gave Manners his name, but whoever it was wasn't doing him any favors. Yet, he was pragmatic enough to take Manner's offer. Pride wouldn't pay the bills, put food on the table, or help him pay for his mother's medical care. And the hardware that Ackles admired earlier was nothing but a kick in the face when all was said and done. Sterling finished his beer then packed away the uniform, the medals, the pictures and the framed commendations.

_That's not my life anymore_ , he thought wearily. _That man's dead and buried, best to forget about him._

Sterling wasn't surprised to discover he wasn't at all unhappy with the idea.

* * *

  
**June 2008  
Boston, Massachusetts**

Jared felt like he was entering heaven as his team, the Boston Celtics, yelled their hearts out while watching their coach, Doc Rivers, struggle to hold onto the Championship Trophy. The thunderous screams raining down from the arena deafened Jared but he didn’t care: he was loved, adored, and respected. And all he had to do was help a great team reach their goal of finally bringing the glory back to Boston where it belonged.

He imagined this was what Larry Bird and Bill Russell must have felt and basked in the magnificent chaos surrounding him. Unable to control himself any longer Jared threw back his head and bellowed as loudly as possible. His primal scream didn’t last more then three seconds as a friendly thump of warning on the back of his head made him stop. Jared turned just in time to see Tom Welling, the premier shooting guard and the official number one player of the NBA, aim an open bottle of water at his face. He didn’t bother to duck and stood still with his usual Texas-wide smile as he got soaked.

Jared shook his head, dousing people around him. He knew he looked a complete mess with his uniform clinging to his body because of sweat, but he couldn't bring himself to care. This was what he had worked for during all those merciless Texas summers, conditioning himself by playing one pick-up game after another under the punishing sun until his mother had no choice but to drag him home for meals. Jared ended up with plenty of sunburns and racked up respectable amount of visiting hours in the local hospital, but now watching his teammates act like delirious children made him realize all the sacrifices he had made were nothing compared to this moment of triumph.

Twenty minutes later the team slowly disbanded and went to the lockers to clean up for various parties scheduled for the team. Because Jared, as a point guard, had taken such an important part in the Celtics' victory over the Lakers, he knew he’d be one of three players chosen to take part with Coach Rivers in the post-game press conference. In spite of the fact that Jared had done his fair share of giving interviews, he was trembling with anxiety as he prepared for the last one for the season.

“Don’t sweat it,” Tom said.

Jared grunted and fiddled with his team cap, wondering if he should put it on or if it would make him look dorkier than usual. He shyly glanced at Tom to see his friend tucking away his cap into his bag. He decided to follow Tom's lead, as usual. Jared carefully combed his hair and made sure nothing was stuck between his teeth while Tom just gave his face a casual once-over before packing away his toiletry kit.

Jared’s agent, Mike Rosenbaum, once declared Tom Welling could be covered from head to toe in bat guano and still would make it on People’s issue of 50 Most Beautiful People. Jared had laughed when he heard the wisecrack but secretly he felt a slight twinge of jealousy because Mike was all too correct. Tom was one of those men who didn’t have to spend more than a dime to look like a god. He also happened to be the nicest guy in the team and was someone Jared would love to introduce to his sister, Megan, if Tom wasn’t already happily settled with his girlfriend.

In fact, Jared expected in the coming summer to receive a cream-colored and very expensive letter from Tom and Jamie, announcing their engagement. That would be followed by even more expensive stationary, probably stenciled with tasteful silver-gilded lettering, inviting Jared and a guest to their wedding in early October. Jared imagined it would take place in the Hamptons or Bar Harbor or some other charming town that boasted a healthy mix of Exonians and Yalies in their populace.

“Dude, stop it,” Tom said, laughing as he snatched a tightly-wrung towel from Jared’s hands. “They love you, you know. You got the whole ‘My Heart’s Big as Texas’ thing going and Bostonians love to eat up shit like that. Trust me, tonight you can do no wrong in front of the press. Okay?”

Jared felt tears well up. “I did good, didn’t I?”

“You were a godsend.”

Jared nodded and gave a watery smile. “You were pretty impressive yourself.”

Tom’s eyes suddenly became wet. “Yeah, I’m going to sleep like a baby tonight.”

“Like hell you are!” Justin Hartley roared as he draped himself around Tom. “Tonight, you, my man, are going to party like the world’s on fire!”

“Jamie’s got plans…”

“Oh c’mon, Tom!” Justin wheedled. “After she rides you and puts you away wet, you guys have to come down to Velvet! Rosenbaum rented out the entire club and that man seriously knows how to throw a party.”

Tom moaned. “I still haven’t forgotten his last one.”

“Neither have we. The pictures are still circulating on the Internet,” Jared said, smirking. “I’m just amazed Jamie hasn’t dumped your sorry ass.”

“She’s an amazing woman, and a very forgiving one,” Tom added. “Which is why I’m not going to risk that again.”

“Bring her!” Justin said. “Hell, bring your goddamn dogs if you feel like it.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, that’ll make Jamie definitely want to party. I can just see it now on Boston Globe, page one, below the fold. ‘The Celtics celebration was marred by death of Tom Welling; cause of death has not been released but sources say it was probably due to a four inch Jimmy Choo sandal embedded in his skull.’ ”

Jared laughed and nudged Tom. “So, no dogs then. Just tell Jamie I’ll be the man and make sure she has a good time.”

“Hey, jackass, that’s my girlfriend you’re talking about!”

“A little competition never hurts,” Jared said. “It’s either that or I stand in front of your door, singing ‘It’s My Party’ like a cat in heat.”

“He would, you know,” Hartley said as he checked himself out in a mirror.

“Yeah, I know he would,” Tom said. “Okay, but only for an hour. I really am bushed.”

“Cool, see you there!” Justin said.

“Wait a minute, aren’t you going to the press conference?” Jared asked.

Justin shook his head and wiggled his brows. “Nope, I got out of that shithole duty. Why the fuck would I want to talk to a bunch of miserable sons of bitches when I can have a cold beer and watch Rosenbaum make an ass of himself?”

“I kinda hate you right now,” Jared said.

“But I love you, San Antonio! See you at Velvet!!”

Tom and Jared watched Justin run out of the locker room, whooping on top of his lungs.

“You got hush money?” Tom whispered.

“I most certainly do.”

“How much?”

“A nickel,” Jared answered.

“Good boy.”

“Bring your camera,” Jared added with a wide grin. “I’m thinking we’re going to take some interesting pictures tonight.”

“You know it. Let’s go. Coach must be wondering where the hell we are by now.”

* * *

  
To many in the business Michael Rosenbaum was one of the best, if not the best, sports agent in the country. His list of clients was a wet dream and their devotion to him was stuff of legends. If anyone bothered to study him and his work ethic, they would've discovered a very simple formula for his success.

Rosenbaum didn’t just handle his clients’ careers; he faithfully led them through the media landmines that dotted athletes’ world as they navigated between the public sector and their private lives. Rosenbaum also knew how far he could let his clients roam before yanking back their leash. This combination of mother-hen attitude and dominatrix inflexibility was why his clients stayed with him from the moment they signed the contract, giving him all access to their and their family’s personal lives. It also didn’t hurt that Rosenbaum shamelessly pampered the families and various girlfriends of his athletes. These qualities endeared him to many and they, in turn, didn’t care about the ten percent he took. Quite often, his clients presented him with outlandishly expensive gifts to show their appreciation: his three garages were full of such expressions of gratitude.

Mike saw the tall, loose-limbed Texan and yelled, “Yo! Cowboy! How’s it hanging?!”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jared replied, grinning. “So, exactly how drunk are you?”

“Sober as a nun on Ash Wednesday, actually,” Mike answered.

Jared was stunned. “Why is that?”

“Because nights like tonight are when I move in for the kill. Do you know how many CEOs and CFOs and other bigshots are partying here? Everyone wants to be where the winners are, Jared, and tonight – this is where the winners are.”

“Another words, you’re schmoozing.”

“Got that right. By the way, People Magazine wants you to do a spread for them, at your convenience of course.”

Jared gaped at his agent. “What did you say?”

“They want you, Hartley, and Welling for a full issue. ‘The Golden Team’ I think is what they’re calling you guys. C’mon, you have to admit you guys are damn good looking compared to some other players who shall remain nameless. It also helps that you’re not an Ent. Jesus, I nearly had a heart attack when I saw how friggin’ tiny you guys actually were compared to the Lakers!”

“Dude, you’ve seen us play hundreds of times. We _are_ the shortest team in the League!”

“That doesn’t matter – people like looking at hotties: they like it even more when the hotties deliver the goods. After People we’re talking GQ, Vanity Fair, even. Sports Illustrated will have to beg to get a photo shoot with you.”

Jared never thought of himself as a physically attractive guy. Sure he had his good days, but when compared to Tom’s inhumanly beautiful face or Justin’s perfect body, he definitely ranked a distant second in the looks department.

“I don’t know if anyone would like to see me with my shirt off,” Jared said wryly as he patted his chest, feeling his ribs poke back in protest.

“That’s because you’ve been doing nothing but playing ball,” Mike said. “I’ll get you a weight trainer and we’ll beef you up by thirty or forty pounds. Trust me, women across the country will have heart attacks when they see you without a shirt.”

“And greased up so thick I’d burst into flames if I stepped into sunlight.”

“Hey, it’s all part of the job. What do you want? Hazard pay?”

“What about the deal with Nike?”

Mike winced and made a rude noise. “Their offer was laughable, and now with the Championship win? No fucking way are we even going to consider what they put on the table.”

“But it’s Nike!” Jared wailed. “Dude, it’s the label that made Jordan!”

Mike shook his head. “No, Jordan made Nike, not the other way around. And, honestly, the company’s gotten too full of itself in my opinion. What we need is a smaller one that has potential and the hunger to claw its share from the market.”

Jared’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And who might that be?”

“Let me show you.”

“You set me up!” Jared grumbled as Mike enthusiastically herded him through the partygoers.

“Damn right I did. You were so in love with the Nike label, I expected you to propose to them!”

“I wasn’t that bad!”

“You were worse. Smile, Alona Tal doesn’t like it when she has to talk to sulky children.” Mike pointed at a corner table where a woman sat by herself, leisurely sipping a martini.

Jared saw the petite blonde and came to a halt. She looked like she hit puberty during mid-afternoon and would probably reach legal age seven years from tomorrow. He had no clue how she got into the club much less get her hands on alcohol.

The blonde spotted them and the doubtful look on Jared's face. She smiled. “Yes, I am young, but then I graduated from Georgetown when I was nineteen so you can understand.”

“Not really, but I’ll take your word for it. Nineteen? Wow, that’s incredible. I was still having trouble asking girls out for dates when I was nineteen.”

Alona tipped her head to the side and smiled, looking like a cheerful little bird. “Mike was right. You are an original!”

“I’m glad you see it that way. My mother would usually whack me upside my head and tell me to behave like I wasn’t raised in a barn and given hay for meals.”

“Have you talked to her?” Alona asked.

“Yeah, she was pretty happy. My dad was crying and my brother was drunk. I think my sister was drunk too but I’m not so sure. I didn’t get to talk to either of them.”

“Well, I hope they don’t suffer from hangovers. Did Mike tell you who I represent?”

“No, he was getting to that, I think,” Jared cautiously said as he gave his agent a pointed look.

“I represent Beaver Industries.”

“I’m sorry to say I never heard of it,” Jared said.

“And you shouldn’t, unless you work for Pentagon. Mr. Beaver was the go-to man for the Department of Defense for nearly three decades.”

“Well, that sounds exciting but why are you interested in me? I gotta tell you, I may be from Texas but I don’t have a gun. If it wasn’t for gravity I couldn’t hit the ground.”

Alona gave another toothy smile. “That’s not why we’re interested in you, Mr. Padalecki. Mr. Beaver has decided to part ways with the company he helped create. Difference of opinion and whatnot; what he is interested in is using his technological expertise to create … shall we say people-friendly products?”

“Like basketball shoes,” Mike said. “The guy’s a genius, Jared. He helped create artificial limbs two years ago and it’s making huge waves in multiple industries. We’re talking Nobel stuff here.”

“So he went from missiles to sneakers?” Jared asked. “That’s quite a change there, Ms. Tal.”

“For you, maybe, but not for Jim. He never wanted to stay as long as he did, and when he finally found a way out – the man bolted so fast the Board of Directors had whiplash when he exited the meeting room.”

“You make it sound like he was in a prison.”

“It was a gilded cage, Mr. Padalecki. And he just found a way out after twenty-seven years of servitude. Trust me when I say the man’s itching to branch into new directions: ones that won’t cause so much personal grief.”

“But sneakers?”

“Why not? Do you know how much technology is sunk into creating the perfect footwear for professional athletes? Or swimwear for that matter? The challenge in this particular arena was too much for Jim to resist.”

“And he succeeded,” Mike said. “Or at least I think he did. But he needs someone to test it out for him. Someone he can trust since it’s a prototype.”

“Sounds like something out of a Bond film,” Jared said with a playful look in his eyes.

“Are you interested?” Alona asked.

“Yeah, sure, but why me?”

“Because you’re young, you still have a lot of mileage, and you have a reputation as a trustworthy person. In the business of sports that’s a rare trait.”

“Not so rare with my team,” Jared said.

“My apologies,” Alona said, “but you understand where I’m coming from.”

Jared nodded. He’s heard enough horror stories about sleazy agents, abusive coaches, and even violent teammates. In fact, he’s had more than his fair share with the last group and that was the primary reason why he chose the Celtics. When he signed up with them the team wasn’t in the top five in rankings, but they had a solid reputation for being close-knit and running interference for fellow players when the need arose.

“So, are you interested?” Alona asked.

“I most certainly am,” Jared said. “Mike probably told you but I’m a gadget hog. If it’s shiny I need it.”

“Glad to hear it,” Alona said. “I think you’ll like what Jim came up with. And, yes, it’s very shiny.”

“Cool!” Jared said. “Can’t wait to try it out.”

“I’ll call tomorrow to set everything up?” Mike said.

“As early as you wish,” Alona answered. “Now, you must excuse me. I have to fly back to Virginia. It was a fantastic game, Mr. Padalecki.”

“Were you cheering for us?” Jared asked mischievously.

“Of course, I always root for the underdogs, especially when they’re cute as you are.”

“Good to know,” Jared said and stood when Alona got up to leave.

He studied her as she walked away. “Interesting gal, is she as scary as I think she is?”

“Pentagon can't touch her boss because she runs interference.”

Jared turned to his agent. “Seriously? From fighter jets to sneakers?”

“Trust me on this. I read up on the guy and he’s got access to all sorts of scary shit. Don’t be surprised if your sneaks come with batarangs or something.”

“Okay, that really would be cool.”

“And now I have someone else you need to meet,” Mike said.

“Man, how many meetings have you set up?”

“This is the last one. She’s my new publicist – her name’s Katie Cassidy. I gotta warn you – she’s outrageous, but in a good way.”

“Wait a minute, _you’re_ saying she’s outrageous? Do you know how scared I am now?”

“Shut the fuck up. You’re six-five, she’s five-seven and weighs like a hundred pounds.”

“That doesn’t mean anything and you know it.”

Mike grunted and dragged Jared to the back of the club where a private elevator led them to the exclusive party rooms on the second floor. He opened the door to the largest suite where a blonde was busily typing into the computer.

“Katie…”

She raised her hand in a motion of silence and continued typing. After a minute she stopped and looked up. “Success!” she cried out.

“Dare I ask what?” Mike asked.

“I made Perez Hilton take down that fucking rumor from his website.”

“Thank God,” Mike said and collapsed onto a sofa that almost swallowed him whole.

Jared sat down next to him. “What rumor?”

“The asshole was making hints that a client of mine was a closeted homosexual.”

“Well, shit,” Jared said.

“Yeah, not a reputation you want to have if you want to keep playing in the NFL. Hey, if the guy likes a little mano-a-mano action on the side, it’s not a problem as long as he keeps it quiet.”

“But if it hits the press, it’s a whole different ballgame,” Katie said as she closed her laptop. “Personally, I don’t give a damn who our clients are banging as long as they bring in the wins, but something like this could bench an athlete before the season is over.”

“And once they’re benched, it’ll only be a matter of time before they’re cut loose,” Mike said. “It’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen to my men.”

“Are most agents like you?” Jared asked.

“Oh yeah, there are some homophobes, but we as a whole agree that what our clients do in their private time is their business – barring any criminal repercussions, of course.”

“You’re a good man, Charlie Brown,” Jared said then dove for his agent. Mike squawked and tried to scramble out of the sofa but Jared pinned him down and viciously rubbed his bald head like he was polishing tarnished silverware.

“I hate it when you do that!” Mike hollered as he gingerly patted his reddened scalp.

“Can we have some food? I’m starving!” was Jared's answer.

“Tonight, it’s my treat. Katie, anything?”

“Oh God, I could go for a cheeseburger right now, and fries?”

“Jesus, it’s almost two!” Mike said with a look of horror on his face.

“I don’t care! You had me chained to this laptop since seven this morning so I deserve some food!”

“How about sushi?”

“Oh, fuck off. I need real food.”

“Make that two,” Jared said. “And beer, real beer, not that pissweiser shit.”

“Okay, I’ll order two special plates for the rednecks in my crew,” Mike said.

“That’s really not PC,” Katie said with a snort.

“Neither is your heels made out of … crocodile? Or is it panda? No, polar bear, that’s it!” Mike shot back before using the private phone in the room.

Katie flipped him a bird then rolled her eyes at Jared. “Meet my boss, the eco-conscious, tree-hugging loon.”

“Somebody should tell him about how much pollution his cars are causing then,” Jared said with a smirk.

“Oh please, he’ll never give up that addiction. I’ve seen dustheads with more control than Mike when it comes to his cars.”

Jared threw back his head and laughed while Katie watched him with open fondness. Mike told her Jared was special and now that she’d met him, Katie had to agree. Jared was a rare mix of boy-next-door goodness and serious talent. She calculated that a combination like that could earn them millions and make all of them ridiculously wealthy. Katie had no problem with that whatsoever. Her student loans were astronomical and living in Boston wasn’t helping her budget either. She looked at Mike and gave a wink to show her approval. Mike smiled and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘I told you so.’

A man who could be a linebacker for the Chicago Bears delivered the food in less than fifteen minutes. He gracefully deposited the large tray and poured the beer into tall glasses before exiting.

“Wow,” Jared said as he took a huge bite. “This is the best damn burger I’ve had since I moved here.”

“Welcome to the high life, Jared, and it’s only going to get better,” Mike said as he raised his glass.

“Amen to that,” Katie added as she clinked her glass against Mike’s and Jared’s.

Jared was glad to see neither of them spotted his frantic draining of his beer. He examined the glass in his hands and realized from its weight that it was made of crystal. He then read the labels on the condiments and failed to recognize any of the brands.

“Is everything all right?” Mike asked gently. “You seem out of it.”

“Still coming down from the game,” Jared quickly answered.

“Hey, why don’t you take your burger and go join your friends, see what they’re up to. I’ll be downstairs in twenty.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

Mike’s cell rang. He looked at it and said, “I have to answer this.”

“Not a problem. It’s nice meeting you, Katie.”

“Likewise!” Katie chirruped and gave a enthusiastic farewell wave.

Mike’s phone call lasted less than a minute. He turned to Katie and asked, “So, what do you think?”

“You're right: he’s definitely in the closet.”

“How long do you think he’ll stay quiet?”

“He’s from Texas. If we haven’t heard anything by now, the odds are good he’ll stay under the radar for the duration of his career.”

“That’s what I think too. He might have an occasional hook-up here and there but they’re easy to manage. I just wish the kid would be up front about it with me. It’s so much easier to handle things when we’re all on the same fucking page.”

“What you have to worry is when he falls in love, Mike.” Katie cautioned. “Padalecki is the type to do anything for those he loves, and if he falls for a guy … we’re well and truly fucked.”

“Then I’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t fall in love,” Mike said.

“And how the hell are you going to do that?”

“Katie, do you think he’s the first pro I handled who likes dicks? Please, compared to some of my other boys Padalecki’s going to be a piece of cake.”

“You still haven’t told me how you’re going to do it.”

“Simple, I’ll dangle the American Dream in front of him. Killer salary, huge contracts, big house for him, his parents, his siblings. And there will be fast cars, pool out back, adoring fans, hot women all waiting in line just to touch him. Then I’ll go in for the kill. I’ll introduce him to the girl of his dreams: the one that will be the perfect wife and mother, and they’ll have three … no, make that five kids. After all, he’s from Texas.

“He’s not going to give up all that for a dick.”

“And he’s young enough to fall for it,” Katie said.

“Young and impressionable. Just the way I like ‘em.”

* * *

  
Alona unpacked a pair of basketball shoes that looked almost respectable. The entire body was black but the soles were made out of silver material. There were no garish logos save for the Celtics’ leprechaun and one slim artwork that Jared couldn't decipher.

“Do you want to know what it’s made out of?” Alona asked.

“Sure, I minored in chemistry in college,” Jared answered, trying not to sound smug.

“I know. Jim was impressed,” Alona said. “The sole is, of course, the most important part of the shoe. It’s multifilamented technology. The core material is tension fiber, which is surrounded by more filaments made out of material I can’t divulge yet. This gives the sole both elasticity and power, allowing its wearer maximum amount of control on the court.”

“It feels heavy,” Jared said as he weighed the shoe with his right hand.

“The upper shoe is made out of leather. It is heavier than we calculated and please tell us if that bothers you. The artwork on the side of the sneakers is actually Jim’s signature of his last name, but it's so illegible that Madison Ave. thought it would make a good logo.”

“And he allowed the Celtics' logo on the sneakers,” Jared said. “That’s a first for the NBA in my lifetime.”

“He doesn’t care whose logo is more visible,” Alona explained. “Once people see what these sneakers can do, they’re going to be howling for it. We figured your team's logo will just give this brand the exposure it needs.”

“Your boss is really selling it, isn’t he?” Jared asked.

“Definitely,” Alona answered.

“Okay, then, let’s see what these babies can do.”

After an hour of grueling workout Jared was elated. The sneakers were amazing. They adjusted quickly, especially when he had to suddenly change direction or make a sideway skid. Some of the contortions he made could’ve damaged his ankles but Jared took the risk and was rewarded with complete control and stable movement.

“What do you think?”

“Oh God, I love these things. I want twenty pairs and that’s not a joke, Alona.”

“I’ll have three pairs at your doorstep by tomorrow. You’re more than welcome to wear them down during summertime. Please try them on outside courts. We have had players use them under brutal conditions, but you are our spokesperson, and a believer is always better at promoting a product when they’re being honest.”

“Will I ever meet Mr. Beaver?” Jared asked.

“Soon,” Alona said, “his schedule has him traveling so much, he hasn’t seen his home in five weeks.”

“That’s harsh,” Mike said.

“It is, but he’s happy and that’s what matters at the end of the day.”

“Good to hear the man’s happy,” Jared said, “and I hope he keeps making stuff like this.”

“He’s got a lot of ideas,” Alona said. “I wasn’t kidding when I said he was ecstatic when he was finally let go. He loves the civilian life and is quite happy tinkering with more peaceful things.”

“Am I ever going to find out about his mysterious past?”

“Never,” Alona promptly replied. “He signed so many non-disclosure forms I don’t think he could tell you what kind of coffee he had while he worked for the DoD.”

“Department of Defense? I thought he worked in his own company.”

“The company more often than not loaned him to the military complex. They were very disappointed when Mr. Beaver left the firm that bears his name.”

“How unhappy was the company?”

“Let’s just say they were also disappointed and leave it at that.”

Jared saw Mike’s warning glance and said, “Fine with me. So three more pairs then?”

“Already taken care of,” Alona answered. “Have a good day, Mr. Padalecki.”

“Take care Alona!”

“That was close,” Mike said as Jared packed his bag.

“Is this safe?” Jared asked. “I mean we’re in bed with a guy who probably made stuff for SEALS or Delta Force or someone just as scary.”

“First off, you’ve seen way too much television and Beaver’s forté hardly gives him access to that type of people. Trust me, the military is fantastically talented at compartmentalizing and micro-managing its people.

"Do you really like the shoes?”

Jared’s smile sharpened. “Oh yeah, gonna kick some ass when Tom and Justin join me tomorrow for a game.”

“Sounds like we’re on our way, kiddo.”

“That we are, Mike. That we are.”

* * *

  
Will Russo watched his five-year-old son, Georgie, chase his older sister around the pool. Madeline’s bright laughter would’ve made him smile any other day but now nothing save the death of Whitney Armstrong Baker would make him crack a grin for the next fifty years.

_The motherfucker’s gonna pay for this_ , Will fumed silently. _If that ass-fucking pansy thinks he’s got the best of me he’s got a hard lesson coming._

Unfortunately, Will knew that in spite of all his black promises Baker was long gone from his limited circle of influence. Will was, after all, only a soldier with the Manzoni Family, and they were considered caporegimes to the Barassi Family. Who they answered to Will never asked. He figured that kind of curiosity would earn him a 9mm headache, and neither he nor his family needed that.

But now he might earn that bullet anyway because of one whitebread motherfucker named Whitney Armstrong Baker.

Will was dazzled when he first met the man who would eventually lead him to his downfall. “Call me Whitney” came from one of the best families in Boston. Born and bred in Weston, he went to St. Paul’s Academy which funneled him into Princeton where he earned a degree in economics. If that weren’t enough, his mother sent the bastard to England to further his studies.

The golden boy returned five years later with head full of schemes and numbers. And that was when Will had the shitty luck to run into him.

Whitney Baker played tennis every day at Mt. Auburn Club, drank water only out of glass bottles, but never made another person feel lacking because of their more humble upbringing. He was genuinely fascinated by Will’s rough history and asked smart questions that never insulted, only flattered. It wasn’t long before Will was curious as to how Baker would use his education.

Baker was kind enough to tell him. The Big Dig was coming to a close and that meant real estate in Boston would skyrocket even further. He knew a certain piece of land would come up for private sale. The area was contaminated by a fire that spewed dry-cleaning fluid all over the place and would take millions to clean up. However, once the land was decontaminated it would be worth at least twenty times its purchase price.

The idea was too good to pass: Will offered one million of his own money to bankroll the investment company Whitney was building to purchase the land. That very weekend he met other investors, all very excited about the land and the riches it would bring. None of them had any idea they had fallen for a classic real estate scheme which would leave them with nothing to show for their pains save few acres of unusable land sitting in Worchester.

If Baker had succeeded all Will had to do to recover his loss would be track down the fucker and break every bone in his body until he gave back the stolen money. Unfortunately for Will, Baker was indicted by the federal government and was taken off the radar. Will had no reservations as to the reason for Baker’s disappearance. The Feds had figured out he was involved and thought Baker might cough up interesting information.

Will knew Baker wasn’t suicidal enough to talk about him, but he was still one million down the hole. Thankfully, the money was all his and not belonging to his bosses. However, once the word about his stupidity got out, it would only be a matter of time before he’d be replaced. Nobody wanted a dumbass for a foot soldier.

Will wondered if Ben Manzoni would choose the maniac, Jack Contadino, from California. The kid’s background was hazy but one thing was for sure, Jack loved to kill people. It was his specialty and given a choice, he’d do it for free just because he wanted to. The other was a skinny kid named Frank Mercy. The surname made Will laugh when they were first introduced. And that was the last time Will ever laughed when it came to Frank. The guy was ice: coldest son of a bitch he'd ever met and that was including his bosses. Frank would kill only when ordered, but he would shoot God if he was given the green light. Jack was the stuff of nightmares but Frank made Will afraid to fall asleep, and between the two it was definitely Frank who had the greater ambition.

Will didn’t doubt Frank would climb the ladder and maybe even end up as a capo himself. And now he had unwittingly given Frank a chance at grabbing the first rung upwards. Will had to get his million back and, more importantly, he needed a way to prove himself to the rest of the Manzoni Family that the Baker fuck-up was a one-shot.

Chomping on his morning breakfast of sausages and scrambled eggs, Will flipped open the Boston Herald and saw the full-page photo of the Celtics triumphant in their victory. Will studied the picture with avid interest like any other Bostonian the morning after the Championship Game.

The healthy, jubilant players displayed in the photo might just give him the way out from certain death. Will may not be a capo but he had people who quivered in fear whenever he appeared. They were intelligent enough to realize the level of violence he was capable of without the benefit of watching _The Sopranos_.

Will decided he was going to make them a smart offer – they would do something for him and in return he would let them walk away, unharmed. He mentally made a list of such people and began calling them.


	2. Chapter 2

**July, 2008  
Boston, Massachusetts**

Jared studied Tom as the photographer heaped praises on his best friend. He still couldn't figure out how Tom end up looking like he just got out of a Lehman Brothers' board meeting while he ended up looking like a third-rate pimp from Oahu.

Tom took the chair next to Jared. "As your friend it's my duty to ask what the _fuck_ were you thinking when you put that on?"

"All I said was I liked bright colors. Next thing I know," Jared gestured towards his hideous shirt and black jeans, "they cornered me and forced this shit on me."

Tom shook his head and finished his coffee. "Man, you have got to learn the lingo. Bright colors mean anything goes in the fashion business. Remember, Jared, you're almost 6'5" and that means there's going to be a whole lot of fabric stuck on you so you might want to reconsider clothing that has stripes ... and flowers ... and," Tom paused to study the shirt further. "Is that ivy pattern on the cuffs?"

Jared rolled his eyes and theatrically whispered, “Dude, this really sucks.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of modeling,” Tom sarcastically replied. “Do you think I _want_ to do this?”

“Yeah, you have the patience for this crap, but man, if they ask me to hold a pose one more time I’m going to start farting until I clear the goddamn room.”

Tom bit his lip in order to not laugh, but his eyes teared up immediately. After three deep breaths he wheezed out, “Jesus, give a guy some warning, will you?”

“Okay, but I’m telling you right now, even if you run my farts will reach toxic levels before you hit the door.”

Tom cupped his face with his hands and started laughing. He tried to keep it quiet so there were sounds of “hee hee hee” floating out from between his fingers. Jared thought Tom sounded like he inhaled an entire balloon, maybe even two.

“Excuse me, may I speak with you gentlemen?”

Jared didn’t even notice the stranger until he introduced himself. “Sorry, we’re having a moment here.”

Tom nodded, his face still hidden in his hands. The man stared at him with some concern before speaking.

“My name is Jonathan Sandler. I represent Ralph Lauren and all his subsidiaries. We are thinking of doing a western theme for our spring line next year and we are of firm belief that you two, along with Mr. Hartley, would be perfect representatives for our new Collection for Men.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not very familiar with the brand, but doesn’t Polo already make clothing for guys?” Jared asked.

Tom finally managed to regain his composure and looked at Sandler with genuine interest. “They have different price ranges. The Collection is the most expensive line but it’s only for women.”

“That is correct,” Sandler said, obviously relieved somebody knew what he was talking about. “But we believe it’s time to introduce the same level of quality for men.”

“And you want to hire us to help launch it,” Tom said.

“Yes.”

“But I’m from Texas. Texas isn’t exactly west. We’re … just Texas,” Jared said, feeling his face heat up in embarrassment.

“I don’t think that will matter much to our customers,” Sandler said. “Does this hold any interest for you?”

Tom shrugged. “Of course it does. We all had polo shirts growing up so we’re comfortable with the brand name, but I think you should talk to our agents. They might think there’s some conflict of interest with our other endorsement contracts.”

“Will do that. Thank you for your time.” Sandler marched out of the studio, cell phone in hand.

“Oh my God,” Jared hissed, “ ‘we all had polo shirts growing up’? What the fuck, man? I’d be lucky if I got three new Gap t-shirts for Christmas!”

“Calm down,” Tom said. “Look, it doesn’t hurt to have an interest in the fashion industry, okay? In the old days it was all about endorsements but not anymore. Those suckers last as long as we win. The moment we get injured or sidelined, they’ll leave us and move onto the next chump. The fashion business, now that is something that’s always going to make money. If we play smart, we’ll get more than an endorsement contract: we’ll get a piece of the fucking pie just like the CEOs and the stockholders.

“This Collection thing Sandler was talking about? I’m betting the wallets alone will probably cost a thousand dollars, if not more. But I guarantee you people will buy it. Why? Because they’re brand whores. So, we let them use our faces, but, in return, we get equity: stock options and voting rights," Tom said, his voice as hard and calculating as his words. "That’s what’s going to put food in the fridge when we’re sixty-five, Jared, not contracts with Nike or Gatorade.”

“Did I ever tell you how much I admire and fear you?” Jared said in awe.

“I’m going to marry Jamie and we’re going to have kids. I plan to put them through college without having them worry about where the money’s going to come from. I remember what it was like going through school, terrified of what’ll happen to me if I got injured and lost my sports scholarship. Those were the most miserable years of my life and they weren’t suppose to be: they were suppose to be the best.”

“You’re building a brand, aren’t you?” Jared asked after digesting Tom’s advice.

“Damn straight, and you should do it too. Talk to Mike. I know he’s been thinking about this. If we do this right, Michael Jordan’s going to weep.”

Jared bumped Tom’s shoulder with his. “Count me in.”

“Good man. There’s thinking big and then there’s doing big. Just remember that.”

“And it’s Polo not Abercrombie and Fitch. Did you ever see their billboards? I keep thinking they’re producers for soft-core gay porn.”

“Did you ever get their catalogs? They _are_ producers of soft-core gay porn.”

Jared laughed loudly, not caring if he was attracting any attention. Tom had become used to Jared’s exuberance so he just smiled and waved at people who gave them curious looks.

“So, what I should name my brand ‘cause Padalecki is a mouthful,” Jared asked.

“How about Prince of Gas?”

“Remember, you asked for it.”

“No, wait…”

The explosive sound was loud enough to warn everybody in the studio of the bomb that was just dropped into their midst.

* * *

  
**August, 2008**

The realtor looked at Jared with open curiosity as she joined him at the staircase leading to the vacant townhouse. Jared had arrived ten minutes earlier so he could check out the street and the surrounding area. The neighborhood was composed of neat homes with well-kept garden boxes decorating clean windows, and streets way too narrow to park his GMC truck.

“This is not one of the more popular neighborhoods in Boston, but it has its charms.”

“I heard that people who move here tend to stick around,” Jared said. “Is it true, Lisa?”

“Yes, it’s a real neighborhood and personally I like it because it’s only a stone’s throw from Boston proper but a world away from all the mayhem.”

Jared’s smile softened. “I like the sound of that. I need a home, not a showcase, you know? I don’t want to throw big parties in my house – just invite few guys over for some beer and BBQ if the weather’s good.”

“Then, unless you want to move out to Weston or as far as Andover, Bay Village sounds like what you need.” She opened the door and stepped inside. “This home is actually two townhouses combined. It’s five thousand square feet, with a deck out back.”

“Is there a garage?”

“Yes, but why don’t we check? Around here garage is a euphemism for a converted tool shed.”

The two located the kitchen. From one of the windows they could see a garage just big enough to park Jared’s truck but nothing else. If he suddenly got the hankering to start a car collection he was screwed.

“The kitchen’s nice,” Lisa supplied hopefully. “The cabinetry is Poggenpohl, of course. The refrigerator is sub-zero, the range is gas, which is a must if you want to cook properly. There’s a wine cabinet in the pantry, which is … here it is.” She opened the door. “Wow, roomier than I expected.”

Jared peeked in. It was actually bigger than his current bathroom. In fact, the entire kitchen was roomier than the one in his parents’ home but nowhere near the size of Tom’s. But then Jamie was a master chef so it made sense that their kitchen was equipped to handle her needs. Jared’s idea of cooking was pitiful, but when he saw the professional-grade appliances he was suddenly seized with the desire to at least try to make his mother’s firehouse chili.

God, did he miss genuine chili. The slop that passed as one in Boston was basically bean stew with aspirations. He ran his hands over the stainless steel appliances and imagined what his mother would say when she visited him for Christmas. He could practically hear her voice childish with wonder and admiration.

“Would you like to go upstairs?” Lisa asked.

“Sounds good to me!”

They took a staircase that made Jared queasy. It was suspended on steel cables and pretty much nothing else. Jared wondered how much weight they were meant to support and for how long.

“The second floor has two bedrooms, one full bath designed by Naoto Fukasawa.”

Jared nodded like he recognized the name. However, when he entered the bathroom he had to reveal his ignorance.

“Umm … where’s the shower door?”

Lisa smiled. “There is no need. This entire section was designed so that the shower doesn’t spray outwards.”

“Seriously?” Jared asked doubtfully as he examined the showerhead. As expected it was at level with his forehead. He took a look at the beautiful but short tub. “The previous owners were pretty small, eh?”

“They were Japanese architects who were hired to build a housing complex when the Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Memorial Bridge went up.”

“Man, that’s a mouthful. What do you call it? I call it Bunker Bridge.”

“I call it expensive,” Lisa deadpanned. “But it’s practically a bargain compared to the Big Dick.”

Jared snorted at the nickname the Bostonians had given to the goddamn mess that was the Big Dig. “I still can’t believe the city is trying to sell it off as a success to the public.”

“Trust me, nobody’s buying it.”

“What about the master suite?”

“You’re going to love this.” Lisa led him up a narrow staircase and opened a glass door. “The entire third floor is the master suite.”

Jared was impressed. The steepled ceiling was better suited for church but it had the added bonus of height: at the lowest point the ceiling was eleven feet high. Ten skylights allowed sunlight to naturally brighten up the entire floor. By his calculation the suite was easily four times the size of his current bedroom.

“And the bath is in here,” Lisa said. “The master closet is on the other side.”

“Oh my God,” Jared said when he entered the bathroom. “Is this for real?”

“Yes, that’s a recessed showerhead; there’s the power body shower along the walls, which is a must for an athlete such as yourself. The tub is overflowing bath with hydro jets. I believe everything is by Tusk International.” Lisa paused for a moment to take a real long look at the dream laid out in front of her. “Actually, this is much nicer than the one in the loft we saw this morning.”

Jared slid open the door leading to the closet. “Hey, they got California Closets!”

“I believe it’s custom-made by a design firm, not California Closets.” Lisa corrected, “Everything was made to suit.”

“This is amazing,” Jared said and knocked on the cabinetry. “Is this cherry?”

“Bamboo,” Lisa answered, “nice, durable, and very green.”

“My hick is showing, isn’t it?” Jared said wryly.

“But it’s such a nice hick.”

Jared’s smile turned up a few wattages. “I like this, Lisa. I like this the best.”

“I think this place agrees with you. You were nowhere as enthusiastic with the other properties we've seen so far.”

“Okay, what’s the price tag?”

“1.95 mil. I could bargain it down to 1.75 but no lower.”

“I’ll take it, if it passes home inspection.”

“If this doesn’t pass home inspection I’ll be on the six o’clock news, surrounded by a SWAT Team.”

“C’mon, I saw a nice bar down the block, let me get you a drink. You deserve it.”

“Jared, I have to tell you something about Bay Village. It’s pretty diverse neighborhood, maybe too much for someone like you.”

“What does that mean?” Jared was taken back by Lisa’s statement.

“Do you know it’s called Gay Village by some of the less enlightened?”

“No, I didn’t,” Jared answered. “Do you think it’ll cause trouble if I move in?”

“Hell no, but I am worried about what some of the ‘less enlightened’ might think about you moving here.”

“Fuck ‘em. I don’t let anyone decide for me where I should put down my roots. It’s a nice block, and people are proud to live here. You could tell that by the way they take care of their homes. I spotted three moms strolling with their babies while I was parking my truck. And this place is pretty fucking awesome, yeah?”

“It most certainly is. Okay, let's go for that drink, but I can have only one. I have to go back to the office and start up the paperwork.”

They were coming down the steps of the townhouse when three boys and one girl crossed their path. They were passing basketball between them. The girl recognized Jared first.

“Holy cow, you’re Pad Man!”

Jared smiled, “That I am.”

“Oh my God, are you going to buy this place?”

“Maybe, still looking,” Jared answered.

“Pretty sweet house if you ask me,” The boy in a Stanford jersey said. “We saw it being renovated. Did you know it used to be owned by a pimp before Mr. Inoue bought it?”

“Dude, that’s just a rumor. Don’t scare him!” The girl said.

“Hey, I know it for a goddamn fact!” The boy retorted hotly.

“And how the fuck could you know that for a fact? When Drago was suppose to own this block you were still sucking on your mother’s tit!” The boy in a plain white tank top said with a smirk.

“Jesus Christ! Watch your mouth, Joshua!” The girl yelled. She turned to Jared and Lisa and said, “I am so sorry for my brother’s language. He and his buddies think they sound like badasses when they curse. The truth is they sound like they _live_ in a short bus.”

Joshua rolled his eyes but a nasty glare from his sister kept him silent. He looked at Jared with curious eyes. “So, are you serious about living here?”

“Maybe, what’s it to you?”

“Nothing, I just thought people like you live in penthouses or gated communities or some such shit.” His sister slapped the back of Joshua’s head with such force even Jared winced. “Ow! What the fu … what was that for?”

“One more word and I’m telling Father Michaels.”

Joshua paled considerably and fell silent. His sister gave a smile only older siblings were privileged enough to possess. She said, “My name’s Abigail. Our family lives in 257. It’s the one with green window boxes and yellow nasturtiums. Anyway, if you really are going to live here, which you totally should, come by. My mom makes great lasagna.”

“No beef?” Jared asked, his dimples out in full force.

“Oh God, no! That’s blasphemy!” Abigail said. “We should get going. We’re so late for dinner!”

The kids trotted away, passing the ball between them while looking over their shoulders with curiosity and admiration.

“Do you know what nasturtiums look like?” Jared asked Lisa as they walked down the street.

“I haven’t a clue,” Lisa answered. “I keep a rock garden myself.”

“I like a woman who knows her limitations.” Jared looked around and said, "So this is Gay Village?"

“Loud and proud,” Lisa answered.

“It doesn’t look it,” Jared said.

“Well, if you’re looking for pride floats you’ll be disappointed.”

“My hick is showing again?”

“Slightly.”

“Oh look, there’s the bar I was talking about.”

“Good save there.”

* * *

  
“Mike, why the hell am I even here?” Jared asked, tugging at the collar and the bowtie that felt like a noose.

“Because showing up for the annual gala for Brigham and Women’s Hospital puts you on the nice people list. And being on the nice people list will put you in the papers in a good way.”

“But Tom’s here with Jamie. Nobody’s going to notice me.”

“Umm, you’re friggin’ giant, Jared. It’s a scientific impossibility to ignore you,” Mike said. “C’mon, the entertainment’s about to start. Let’s sit down.”

“Oh God, not another piano recital!”

“Shhhh!” Mike hissed, nervously eyeing the crowd around them.

Jared slumped in his chair, not caring if anyone noticed his dejected posture. Seriously, he was missing a Red Sox game for this?

The room darkened and Frank Sinatra came on.

_Its quarter to three,  
There’s no one in the place ‘cept you and me_

A spotlight shone on a woman who materialized in the middle of the ballroom. Jared’s interest suddenly perked because the dancer was a serious looker. She had on a black fedora that perfectly matched the black two-piece suit. Frank crooned; her body swayed. And it wasn't long before Jared was totally entranced with her performance. It was as if she was dancing with the music itself and was completely unaware of her audience.

Like many high school jocks he mocked the drama club and heaven knows most of them deserved it, but there were always one or two exceptionally talented students who took his breath away. Jared remembered one in particular: a dancer whose name was as exotic as her looks - Anais. And every time she performed it took every bit of will he had not to creep closer and closer until his chin hit the stage.

This woman made Anais look like a goat with four broken legs.

When the song ended the room erupted with thunderous clapping.

Jared would’ve stood up in order to show his appreciation, but his erection made that feat impossible. He turned to Mike and asked, “Who is she?”

“Name’s Sandy McCoy. She’s with a dance company in Boston.”

“Jesus, I've never seen anything like that,” Jared whispered, his voice heavy with desire. “Hell, I never knew people could dance like that!”

“You want to meet her?” Mike offered. “Her father was a member for the Board of Directors for Brigham before he died. I think she’s actually attending the party.”

“Could you? I’d owe you big time!”

“Not a problem, let me see if I can grab her.”

Jared willed his boner to fade and quickly drained his wine glass before handing it over to a server. Mike returned with Sandy McCoy in tow. The woman was even more beautiful close-up. She possessed long, dark hair that almost reached her waist and her doe-brown eyes were lively with intelligence.

Jared stood up to introduce himself when he realized he was expected to start the conversation. It was then he noticed how freakishly tall he was compared to the elegant dancer.

“Hi, I’m Jared.”

“I know, I saw the final game.”

“You were there?”

“At the Garden or Arena, or whatever people call it nowadays. I call it the Garden. But yes, I did and it was amazing. When Doc held up the trophy I felt like a child again.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed the game. I have to say your dance was amazing!”

“The choreographer is Twyla Tharp. Baryshnikov performed it first. Trust me, my performance is nothing compared to his.”

“I bet he didn’t look half as good as you did.” Jared immediately wanted to take the words back when he saw Sandy’s eyes widen and blush spread through her face. “I swear, I was talking about the dancing, nothing else.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Sandy said. “Excuse me, I have to change and meet some people. Nice to see you again, Mr. Rosenbaum.”

Jared watched Sandy walk away. He looked at Mike and said, “Okay, so how badly did I fuck that up?”

It took him only a second to realize Mike couldn’t answer because he was too busy laughing. Not that he cared. As soon as he could Jared was going to squeeze Sandy's number from his agent, not knowing Mike had already given Sandy his.

* * *

  
**September 2008  
Cambridge, Massachusetts**

Jensen sat on the grass, watching people jog past him. They looked so unhappy Jensen wanted to grab one and ask why they bothered to do something that caused them such misery. These Bostonians never ceased to amaze him in their continuous pursuits of all things intellectual and miserable, and on many occasions – intellectually miserable. It was as if they were driven to find ways to define their unhappiness, and in order to do so they had to drown themselves in it.

Jensen wondered if he could be considered a Bostonian since his books rarely had any happy endings. In fact, death was considered an easy way out for his characters. Of course, he wrote non-fiction which didn’t help matters.

A happy golden retriever came into his view, furiously running after a tennis ball. A little girl chased the dog and the two had a good tussle over the worn toy. The retriever emerged triumphant and ran away, the girl still chasing it, screaming with laughter.

So, maybe not all Bostonians were wallowing in misery.

Jensen looked at the stack of paper in his hands and closed his eyes. It was shit, of course, which was why he was sitting on the banks of the Charles River at eight in the morning. He preferred to be freckled until he looked like someone tossed coffee on his face than make his appointment with Jeff Morgan, his agent.

“I thought you looked familiar,” Jeff said as he sat down next to Jensen.

“Hey,” Jensen said, embarrassed to have been caught playing hooky by the very person he was trying to hide from.

“So, I’m guessing this avoidance routine means you’re not happy with the first two chapters.”

Jensen didn’t reply. Instead, he handed the papers over to Jeff who quickly read them.

“They’re not bad,” Jeff said.

“It’s not my voice,” Jensen said, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration.

“The topic is definitely within your purview. But compared to your two other works, this one’s basically a fairytale.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m having such a hard time writing.”

“Jensen, Random House is not forcing you to write a happy-go-lucky story about rich people living fantastic lives, okay? It’s just that your first book was about a Vietnam War veteran who ended up homeless and addicted to meth. Your second book delved into a family of slaves after the Civil War and all the ways they and their future generations were screwed over.”

“But they were honest, Jeff, and they put a spotlight on something people don’t want to talk about.”

“And they were damn good, I’ll give you that,” Jeff said. “And, again, I don’t mind your topics, seriously, I don’t. You’re a talented writer and you don’t wax poetic about the injustices in your books. So, if this isn’t giving you a literary woody, find something else.”

“You don’t mind then?”

“Of course I mind!” Jeff said huffily. “But I’d rather you stop now than realize it was a mistake four hundred pages in.”

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver,” Jensen said, his face beaming with gratitude.

Jeff rolled his eyes and said, “That might work with the younger crowd but I know better. So, do you have something in mind?”

“I got something scratching at the back of my head but I’m not sure about it.”

“Care to give me a hint since I’m going to be the one facing the publisher?”

“Did you know when World War Two broke out, a lot of Japanese American students were asked to leave their colleges?”

“Really?” Jeff said, “It makes sense in a tragic, what the fuck kind of way.”

“But some colleges didn’t. In fact, quite a few sheltered and protected them for as long as they could. You have to wonder why some decided to do that while the others kicked them out.”

“Human nature, Jensen. That’s just good old-fashioned human nature at its worst,” Jeff said. “By the way, why this particular topic?”

“Chris was in Seattle for a concert and he went to Pike Place Market. He got to talking to several people working there and they told him stories about the Japanese American farmers who were a huge part of the place until the war. Anyway, Chris told me about it and the story stuck with me, so I did a little research and discovered about the students.”

“So you’re planning to move to Seattle now?”

“No, most of the material I need are right here. I might fly out for few interviews and fact-finding missions, but nothing too big.”

“I like it, actually,” Jeff said. “This one sounds like there might be one or two good guys in it.”

Jensen smiled. “I knew that would make you happy. You always did like heroes.”

“Mainly because they’re getting rarer by the day,” Jeff said. “So where are you going to start?”

“Hit the libraries here and see what I can beg, borrow and steal. Then contact University of Washington and Berkeley. ”

“Are you going to work out of here or at home?”

“Here for a month. Don’t worry, I’ll find a decent place to rent.”

“For the love of everything holy make sure you do. Your last writing abode would’ve made cockroaches run away, screaming.”

Jensen just gave a sigh and waved farewell as Jeff sauntered away, already calling the publisher. He looked around and spotted a handsome couple setting up a picnic blanket only few feet away from him. The guy was incredibly tall and the woman very petite. But they looked like they were made for each other. The man leaned over and whispered something that made his girlfriend laugh. Suddenly, two dogs joined them, happily barking and sniffing around the blanket.

As Jensen walked back to his car he wondered where he had seen the boyfriend before. It bothered him during the entire drive back to his house but he had forgotten by the time he started outlining for his new book.

* * *

  
**October, 2008  
Boston, Massachusetts**

Jared watched the Ford truck pull up and somehow park into a space that a Prius would have a hard time squeezing into. A young man, no older than Jared, stepped out of the truck and began pulling out equipment from the flatbed. Jared studied the cabinetmaker and wondered how the kid made a name for himself in the carpentry business at such a young age.

The craftsman saw him and waved enthusiastically. Jared waved back, humiliated that he got caught ogling. He opened the door and said,

“That’s some serious parking skills you got there.”

“I went to school in Boston,” was the answer. “My name is Patrick Connor. Joel Connor is my father.”

Jared smiled as he said, “Okay, that makes sense. I was wondering how someone so young could have such a reputation. Not that you can’t … just that … never mind. I’m still waiting for my coffeemaker to finish brewing.”

“I’ve been doing most of the work for the last two years because dad has gout. So, some of the people who recommended our firm were talking about me and not him.”

“Why don’t I show you what I need and you can tell me if you can build it or not.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Patrick answered.

“Follow me,” Jared said and led Patrick to the living room where a large plasma television sat in a tangle with a DVD player, a cable receiver and a VCR. Alongside the mess was an audio system from Bang and Olufsen.

“I want an entertainment center that holds all this shit and looks good.”

Patrick chuckled. “So the theme here is ‘give me what I want’?”

“Exactly, what do you think?”

“I’m still trying to figure out how a Texas giant ended up living in a home that looks like it was built for Shinto priests.”

Jared threw his head back and laughed. “I like it, actually. Everything’s neat, organized, and there’s so much natural light I don’t need to turn on the lamps until evening. The architects who designed this place really put their hearts _and_ minds into it.”

Patrick kneeled down and examined the floors. “This is remarkable craftsmanship. I think Donaldson might have done the flooring. I’d recognize his work anywhere.”

“There aren’t that many of you guys out there then?”

“No, we’re a rare breed and getting rarer with each new generation,” Patrick explained. “So, I’m guessing you want to keep the zen theme going?”

Jared nodded.

“It’s definitely doable, but I’ll warn you right now it’s going to be expensive.”

“How much?”

“Somewhere between twenty to twenty-five grand.”

“Done. Could you sketch out what you want to do?”

“I’ll do one better. Let me plan it out on my laptop so you can see it. I just need to take a picture of this area so I can incorporate it into the layout.”

“That would be amazing. Do you want some coffee?”

“Sounds good. Can I have mine black with three spoons of sugar?”

“I’ll be right back.”

Jared’s hands trembled badly as he prepared two mugs. He was flirting with Patrick and the man was responding to his subtle hints. It had been a while since Jared took a chance with a guy but Patrick was sending out all the right signals. He also had a thing for green eyes and Patrick’s was bright enough to grab his attention the moment Jared saw him. He was thin but Jared saw prominent strength in the whippy frame and he suspected Patrick was no pushover. He liked that in his male partners. Twinks made him nervous because Jared was constantly afraid he would inadvertently land them in emergency rooms.

Jared took deep breaths before heading back out to the living room. Patrick was already sprawled out on the floor, using the coffee table as a desk. Jared felt something low hum in the base of his skull as he studied Patrick's relaxed pose.

“Do you have any preference which wood I use?”

“The previous owners went with bamboo so I want to stick with the green theme.”

“Maybe recycled oak for the shelves and mirrors for the front panels?”

“Wouldn’t that be dangerous?” Jared asked. “I’m a klutz outside the court and my dogs are a bit wild.”

“Not really. The entire system won’t be covered by mirrors. I plan to make some open spaces so you can display your trophies and whatnot.”

“Impress me,” Jared said and handed over the mug.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

“Okay, I’ll be busy in the kitchen, trying to make my mom’s chili. Hey, you want some?”

“Would love to have a bowl if you think it’s edible.”

“Hopefully it will be!” Jared shouted over his shoulder as he quickly made his way to the kitchen. Thanks to the open floor plan he could freely stare at Patrick while he cooked.

And Jared was serious about his first time as a real chef. He would have a taste before tossing in whatever herbs he thought were necessary. He then stirred and took a sniff: needed more chili powder. Jared couldn't consider the concoction a proper firehouse chili unless its very scent made his eyes water. For the next thirty minutes Jared would repeat this process and every so often peek at his guest in the living room.

“Smells good,” Patrick said as he entered the kitchen. “I’m done. Here, take a look and tell me what you think.”

Jared stared at the screen with amazement. He had a vague mental image from Patrick's description but what was in front of him was definitely beyond what he had imagined.

“This looks so cool,” Jared said. “You can really build this?”

“Actually, this is relatively easy compared to what some of my past clients demanded. You should see some of the weird things I’m paid to make.”

“I see more than my share of weird shit outside my house. The last thing I want is to bring it home.”

“You are a wise man.”

“That I am. This is perfect, Patrick. How fast can you get started?”

“Next week? I have to finish installing a custom-made wardrobe. That one I’m proud of.”

“I hope you’ll be proud of this one too.”

Patrick smiled, and his face turned even more youthful, making Jared feel like a dirty old man. “I am. My dad’s going to flip when he finds out I got a commission from you. He thinks you’re the next golden boy.”

“Tom’s not going anywhere.”

“As far as Dad is concerned, Welling is god,” Patrick said. “If I may ask, why did you come all the way up to Boston? Didn’t Dallas and San Antonio bend over backwards to recruit you?”

“They tried but I wanted to live somewhere different. I spent my entire life in Texas. I was born in San Antonio, grew up there, and then went to A&M. Besides Chicago, Boston was the only other northern team who was interested.”

“Chicago came calling? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, and they were pretty tempting, but Boston … man, Boston has history, you know? And there’s all these neat places you can go where you _know_ there won’t be any paparazzis hanging around.”

“I think you’ll be recognized a lot more now,” Patrick said.

“Yeah but people around here really don’t give a damn. They see you, they recognize you and give you a nod but I'm not Matt Damon or Ben Affleck so nobody’s gunning after me for an autograph. I’ve been down near Harvard Square many times but nobody bothers me in the bookstores, which is very cool. I just don’t eat there, for a very good reason, obviously.”

“Food sucks,” Patrick agreed. “But Davis Square has some seriously good chow places.”

“My agent, Rosenbaum, told me about a pastry shop there. He basically cleans them out every Thursday morning.”

“They have great coffee shops. Even better, they don’t burn their coffee beans so their stuff tastes like real coffee, not like an ashtray.”

“Okay, now I’ll definitely have to make a trip,” Jared said and stirred the chili as it bubbled dangerously close to the rim.

“They have this one Korean bi-bim-bap place that’ll have you licking your bowl clean.”

“What’s bi bi … Korean thing?”

“It’s basically their idea of a garbage plate, but very healthy and damn filling too.”

“Is it hot? I like my food on the wrong side of mouth-on-fire.”

“You can add as much hot sauce as you want.”

“Sounds good to me. Maybe you can show me?”

Patrick paled dramatically. He looked at his laptop and then at the living room where his creation would stand.

“I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?” Jared asked.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Patrick asked shyly.

Jared fell silent. He stirred the pot silently and wondered what the hell he was going to do now. With a sigh he said, “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Isn’t that tricky for someone like you?”

“Not really,” Jared answered, “not unless we make it.”

“I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you to ask me out so quickly. Not that I’m unhappy about it,” Patrick hastily added.

“We’re going out for coffee and maybe lunch,” Jared said, letting his amusement show in the hopes of calming Patrick down. “We’re not eloping to Vegas.”

Patrick snorted. “Oh yeah, my father would love that, not to mention Uncle Jimmy.”

“I’m guessing your father doesn’t know?”

Patrick shook his head. “He suspects but in our family it’s the old don’t-ask-don’t-tell routine. I don’t live at home though the workshop is there.”

“And Uncle Jimmy?”

“Tough old bastard. He came to the U.S. in the 70’s and then slowly brought all his siblings over. Then, as soon as they were settled, he joined the Church.”

“He’s a priest?”

Patrick nodded. “He still preaches brimstone and fire, which doesn’t make him popular with those who are a bit more modernized in the Church, but they’re too scared to talk to him about his method of persuasion. If Uncle Jimmy had his way, he’d smack everyone into respecting God.”

“Sounds like a real joy to be around.”

“My dad said Uncle Jimmy is like strong medicine: best taken in small increments.”

“I noticed you haven’t given me an answer. I can take rejection, in case you’re wondering.”

“I’ve had relationships,” Patrick explained, “but I made sure my father never found out. I’m worried about the press, I guess.”

“It’s summertime. Baseball season is in full swing and most people probably forgot about me by now. Besides, like I said, it’s just coffee and lunch, if you’re interested.”

“I am interested,” Patrick answered. “So I guess that’s a yes.”

“I’ll leave it up to you to arrange the time.” Jared peered into the pot and smiled. “Chili’s done. Want to grab a few beers from the fridge?”

“We can discuss what materials we can use for the cabinetry,” Patrick said. He popped open two bottles of Sam Adams and placed them on the counter. Jared spooned the chili into a large bowl and handed it to him.

“Taste it first and see if you want to add more hot sauce.”

Patrick nodded and gobbled down the first spoon. At first he looked fine but then his eyes bulged and he began coughing. Jared quickly poured a glass of milk and gave it to Patrick who gulped it down in one draw.

“Jesus,” Patrick wheezed. “What the fuck was that?”

“Chili, real, honest chili, not the crap you Yankees serve,” Jared answered gleefully. He took a bite and moaned. “Oh, this is good.”

Patrick looked at him through teary eyes.

“Want the hot sauce or not?” Jared teased.

Patrick raised both his middle fingers as a reply since his vocal cords quit.


	3. Chapter 3

**November, 2008  
Boston, Massachusetts**

"I don't know," Patrick said, "dad knows the cabinet’s done; he’s going to get suspicious if I keep coming down to Boston to touch it up."

Jared forced back his sigh; this was probably the seventh time Patrick used the same excuse and Jared had gotten tired of hearing weeks ago. "I know but I thought we could hang out together this Saturday before the game, go to the restaurant you talked about last week. Maybe catch a movie in the afternoon if you _feel_ up to it."

Jared didn't mean to sound so harsh at the end but he couldn't help it. Patrick ran hot and cold in one sentence and Jared was getting tired of trying to figure out what was his problem. There were moments when he was convinced he could spend years with Patrick, but conversations like this one forced Jared to realize it was more of a wishful thinking on his part than anything else.

"I think I can manage it," Patrick finally conceded. "It'll just take me a while to convince my dad."

"Why don't you call me when you find out?"

Jared abruptly finished the call when he heard Sandy turn off the shower. Jared had gotten used to the double life he was leading, but he was also dismayed by the man he was rapidly becoming. Jared didn't want to be that guy, and while his feelings for Sandy remained steadfast, his interest in Patrick was slowly dying under the strain of secrecy. Jared had belatedly realized he wasn’t cut out to juggle two relationships at once, much less hide one from the rest of the world no matter how legitimate the reasons.

Jared was also wise enough to see that Sandy was everything a man could dream of. If they were still going strong by the end of next year, he was going to Cartier to buy an engagement ring that would blind anyone within half-mile radius, and then propose to her in a home game in front of the entire city of Boston.

_We're going to be happy,_ Jared thought. _Everything's going to turn out fine. I just have to grow up is all._

Sandy came out of the bathroom and immediately started gathering her clothes. Jared stared at her, unnerved by her silence as she went about getting dressed. Sandy was naturally chatty and was not the type to ignore the only other person in the room with her, especially when that person was her boyfriend.

Jared caught a reflection of Sandy's face in the mirror. His unease turned cancerous, poisoning his self-control until he had no choice but to talk.

“How long have you known?” Jared asked, feeling his heart shatter under his shame. How could he have thought he could fool a woman like Sandy? And what possessed him to think he deserved someone so special?

“You’re not the first man I’ve met who’s confused, Jared,” Sandy said as she brushed her hair, assiduously refusing to make eye contact. "And you're naturally loud. You couldn't carry on a quiet conversation even if Sadie's life depended on it."

“Then why didn’t you say something? Why did you stay with me?”

“How could you say that?” Sandy slammed the hairbrush on the bureau and turned to finally look at him. “Oh, Jared, don’t you know you’re breaking my heart?”

Jared rushed out of bed and wrapped his arms around her slender frame. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I wanted everything … I wanted … what we could be so bad, I didn’t know I was hurting you. I’m sorry.”

Sandy gave a tremulous sigh. “I know, but sooner or later I had to face reality.” She stroked her fingers through his messy hair. “So, what are you going to tell your boyfriend?”

“His name is Patrick," Jared answered, tugging her onto his lap as he sat on the bed. "We’re not serious and the relationship, if you could call it that, is already on its last legs. The truth is I have to figure out what I want and if I’m willing to pay the price for it.

“And both you and Patrick deserve a whole person, and half of me is an asshole so it wouldn’t be fair to either of you.”

Sandy laughed softly. “You do have a lovely sense of humor, Jared. That’s one of the best things about you. Never lose that, okay?”

“Okay,” Jared said and kissed Sandy on top of her head.

He didn’t want to let her go. She could give him everything but not the one thing he wanted above all. Just for a moment he allowed himself to dream that he was in love with her, that they would get married and have four kids. It was only then he realized his greatest fear – the reason he strung her along – was the fact that he was afraid to grow old alone. Jared always needed somebody by his side and Sandy, beautiful, kind, Sandy fit the bill so perfectly he deliberately made himself blind to the fact that he was hurting her.

“Hey, why don’t we go dancing?” Jared asked. “Me and you. Oughta be fun, don’t you think?”

“Dancing?”

“Dancing, after binging out on omakase meal at Clio.”

“Oh my God, I knew I’d meet my sugar daddy someday!” Sandy said while fluttering her eyelashes.

“You know, sugar daddy can be taken literally for someone like me. I ate seven Snickers bars today.”

“I hate you!” Sandy cried out and slapped Jared’s chest. “How could you eat that much junk food and not show an ounce of it?”

“Probably because I washed it down with a liter of Coke. All that caffeine made me jittery.”

“I swear one more word and the coroner will be removing my heels from your ass.”

Jared smiled but his eyes were revealed how deeply sorry he was. “Sandy…”

“I know, love, I know.”

“Remember, you deserve better than half an asshole.”

“Okay,” Sandy whispered and brushed a light kiss on his lips. “Okay. So, about that fabulous dining experience at Clio.”

“Coming right up, as soon as I find something decent to wear.”

“We’re going to starve to death, aren’t we?”

“Nope, I got a whole box of Heath Bars and I think three bags of Doritos. And I know I have a case of Pabst.”

“You're a dead man.”

In spite of the fact that they were no longer a couple, they had a great time. Jared knew it was because of Sandy’s personality, not his, that made the evening so pleasurable. He was loath to say goodnight so he dropped her off at her condo in Back Bay before heading straight home. Jared knew better than to try drowning his sorrow at a bar.

He entered his quiet house and sat down on the living room floor, allowing his dogs to pile on top of him so he could take comfort from their presence. Part of him wanted to have a breakdown and destroy something; the other half was relieved and exhausted now that deception was no longer necessary.

However, Jared knew better than to feel content by his return to semi-bachelorhood as he refused to continue as if everything was status quo. Jared was determined to figure out what he wanted from Patrick and, more importantly, his future with and without the Celtics.

Just coming to that conclusion made Jared want to hide inside his closet for the rest of the week.

_I am completely and utterly fucked_ , Jared admitted to himself. To his knowledge, he had never met an openly-gay pro athlete in the U.S. and those he suspected were so terrified of being confronted by their homosexuality that Jared didn't even dare ask. This wall of silence was in many ways the scariest thing for Jared. He didn't know how he was suppose to behave in the public or the private arena with his sexuality. So, he did the only thing he could do - keep quiet, keep his head down, and keep on playing.

Jared turned on the television and channel surfed but nothing caught his interest, then he remembered he hadn't checked his e-mail since morning.

Jared found his in-box flooded with messages from his teammates.

"What the fuck?" Jared immediately read the one from Tom.

> J,
> 
> Holden’s out for the rest of the season. And from what I heard today he’s off the team permanently. This fucking sucks. Rivers is already scouting for a replacement and I’m nervous because who the hell can he tap that we won’t end up hating?
> 
> You’re friendly with Holden. Give him a call ASAP and ask if he needs anything. If I do he’s going to shut down b/c he doesn't want to come off as a charity case, but if you do I think he’ll be more receptive.
> 
> Call me as soon as you finish talking to him.
> 
> T.W.

“Fuck!” Jared drained two beers before calling Rosenbaum.

"I'm guessing you heard about Holden," Mike said.

“I thought he was out just for a month,” Jared said. "Is his season really over?"

"The knee injury is permanent," Mike explained. "I'm sorry, Jared, but the guy's damaged goods now. They're already setting up interviews for his replacement."

"Jesus Christ," Jared hissed. "What's going to happen to Holden now?"

"Holden was second-tier,” Mike explained, “and his pay grade didn’t allow for him to do heavy investing, but he should be okay for a while. His insurance will cover all his medical bills until the end of next year, so he has that at least.”

“Basically he's screwed is what you're saying,” Jared said bitterly. “He never went to college because he was recruited right out of high school. What’s he going to do now with a bad knee?”

“Coaching most likely.”

“But that’s going to take a while, maybe couple of years even.”

“Probably a year,” Mike answered.

“Look, talk to his agent. See if he can slip in some money from me. Just until Holden’s back on his feet. You said a year, right? Let’s aim for that then.”

“You’re a big man, Jared. I’ll talk to Levine. The guy’s fair and smart. He’ll find a way.”

“Thanks,” Jared said. “I mean it.”

“Not a problem.”

* * *

  
**Somerville, Massachusetts**

“Hey, I had no idea this was the bar. There aren’t any signs outside," Jensen said as he dropped onto a barstool next to his best friend.

Chris turned to the bartender who had the biggest dreads Jensen had ever seen and hollered, “Gabe, you forgot to turn on the sign again!”

Gabe gave a nod and fumbled with a bank of switches behind him.

“Thanks,” Chris said. “It would suck if nobody showed up for my performance because they didn’t _fucking know where it was_!”

“I’m sensing you have a slight case of nerves,” Jensen said dryly.

“Something like that,” Chris mumbled. “I have it on good authority that there will be two reps from a record company coming tonight. Mind you they're not Sony, but still…”

“Dude, that’s awesome!” Jensen said with a huge smile.

“Yeah, it is," Chris admitted, bright with anticipation. "Could you help me get set up? I want to do a dry run before ten.”

“No problem.”

Chris led Jensen to the emergency doors at the back that let out to an alley. His pickup truck was backed up to the loading platform that was only nine steps above street level.

Jensen looked at the numerous equipment piled on the flatbed. “Do you really need all this?”

“Hey, blown speaker is no laughing matter, especially if you have industry reps dropping by,” Chris said.

Jensen rolled his eyes and picked up a stack composed of one speaker and microphone gear piled on top. One of the microphones rolled off and hit the platform’s edge, which sent it catapulting onto the street. Jensen put down the pile and ran down the steps to retrieve the microphone. He quickly checked the equipment and to his relief it looked undamaged. Jensen turned to run up the stairs when he was blinded by headlights as a car slowly drove by. The toe of his right boot snag on the lip of a step, sending Jensen tumbling forward. Unable to catch his balance he ended up landing on top of the concrete stairs.

Jensen didn’t register the pain until he tried to move his right leg. His scream of agony and shock was enough for Chris to run to his side.

“What's wrong?”

“It's my leg,” Jensen wheezed out. “I don’t understand what I did. Can you see?”

Chris squinted, barely able to see in the dark. “No, nothing but I don’t see blood so it can’t be too bad.”

“Aw, fuck, Chris, it feels like it's on fire.”

“Hold on, let me tell Gabe what’s going on so he can call an ambulance. He can tell them how to get to the alley!”

_Mom’s going to shit kittens when she hears about this_ , Jensen thought as he heard Chris run into the bar. _Then she’s gonna demand that I return to Texas where there’s better chance of me getting shot than getting laid._.

Jensen heard two sets of footsteps. He heard Gabe say, "Chris, you better move your truck.”

“Good idea; careful not to jostle him,” Chris said. “He’s in a lot of pain.”

“I hear ya,” Gabe replied.

By the time Chris moved his truck to the street, the ambulance was pulling up.

“My name is Claire, this is Joe,” the female EMT said as her partner unloaded gear from the ambulance. “What do we have here?”

“Something’s wrong with my leg,” Jensen whispered.

“How are you feeling?” Claire asked.

“Nauseous, and in a world of pain.”

Claire checked his pupils for response and said, “You banged your head. It’s bleeding, did you notice?”

“Not really,” Jensen said. “My right leg is really killing me.”

Joe pulled out a leg splint from the ambulance and said, “We’re going to immobilize your leg but in order to do that we’re going to have to move you just a little bit, okay?”

Jensen gritted his teeth and nodded. Claire nodded to her partner who lifted Jensen’s leg only slightly. But it was enough for Jensen to grey out for a moment. Claire swiftly secured the leg into the splint while Joe got the gurney ready.

“You want me to go with you?” Chris asked.

Jensen shook his head. “No, finish your set then come and pick me up.”

“What hospital are you going?” Chris asked.

“Mass General,” Claire answered as she and Joe wheeled Jensen into the ambulance.

“Okay, I’ll see you soon,” Chris said.

* * *

  
“Mr. Ackles, I am Doctor Hancock. I’m the orthopedic surgeon on call tonight.”

Jensen peered at the hazy figure. “I’m sorry,” he said and pointed to his eyes, “but they made me take out my contacts when I got here.”

“That’s fine,” Dr. Hancock said and stood nearer to the bed. “Is this better?”

Jensen nodded, “It is. So, what’s happening to me?”

“Well, you did a doozy on your leg. You have two separate fractures, and I’m guessing you’re going to need at least one surgery just to realign the broken bones properly. And from the x-rays, your kneecap’s in pretty bad shape too.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jensen said. “So when’s the surgery, tomorrow?”

Jensen didn’t notice the monitors reflecting his rise of panic. Dr. Hancock did, however. Using his calmest voice, he said, “No, we have a situation with your injury, Mr. Ackles. When the nurse took off the splint, there was some swelling, which in it of itself is not unusual. But it’s been growing and I believe you have internal bleeding. That necessitates that we go into surgery immediately.”

“Okay,” Jensen said hoarsely. “Okay, so … now?”

“Yes, now,” Dr. Hancock answered, surreptitiously glancing at the blood pressure readout hooked onto his patient. “The OR is being prepped even as we speak. The anesthesiologist will want to talk to you but as soon as that’s over – we’ll be going into surgery. Is there anyone you’d like to call?”

Jensen shook his head, “No, not really.”

“Okay then, one of the floor nurses will get you prepped while Dr. Wang talks to you. I’ll see you in the OR, then.”

“Thanks,” Jensen said and sank back into his bed.

_I don’t wanna die because I tripped on the stairs. Please, God, don’t let me die. Not like this … not alone. Please…_

The conversation with Dr. Wang was brief and uneventful, and as soon as he was done Jensen was wheeled into the surgical floor of the hospital. As Jensen watched the flurry of activities around him, he thanked God that Jeff had the good sense to enroll him in Blue Cross when he got the three-book deal with Random House. He quickly estimated the hospital bill would’ve depleted his savings account had he not been covered by health insurance.

That was the last coherent thought he’d have for the next five hours. Jensen woke up in the ICU with only two other bedmates and five nurses on duty. He received much attention while he recuperated, and from the requests for two autographs of his latest novel, _Orphaned Lands_ , it wasn’t just because of his looks. Dr. Hancock and Dr. Wang also visited him, both filling him on what he had missed.

Their updates made Jensen doubly glad he didn’t pursue a career in physical therapy. His suspicion that he didn’t have stomach for anything involving blood and human physiology were confirmed when he talked to the doctors and listened to their rather graphic retelling of what had been done to him.

After the ICU discharged him, Jensen was rolled into a private room where the only form of entertainment was a dilapidated television. Instead of availing himself to the visceral thrill of the Home Shopping Network, Jensen decided to amuse himself by counting the perforations of the ceiling panels. He was on the eighth panel when Chris appeared.

“So, what did the doc say?” Chris asked when he saw Jensen was awake.

“I know better than to ask you how you managed to sneak in when visiting hours were over by eight.”

Chris gave a lopsided grin and sat down on the chair next to Jensen’s bed. “You got a room all to yourself. You’re officially a celebrity.”

“Either that or they want to keep the sane population away from me. Honestly, how the fuck did I fall _up_??”

“Couldn’t tell you, Jenny Boy. That was the first time I’ve seen it happen. I thought you stabbed yourself with the microphone with all that hollering.” Chris closely examined his friend’s leg suspended in mid-air by various contraptions. “Jesus, this looks painful. How long do you have to stay?”

“Four more days. The docs were talking about a second surgery but I’m hoping not. The goddamn anesthetic made me puke my guts out. And guess what? I’m allergic to morphine. I was about two seconds away from ripping my skin off because it was so itchy.”

“Fun times, baby, fun times. What about afterwards? Are you going back up to New Hampshire?”

“I don’t know, actually. It’d be easier for me to do rehab here but…”

“Say no more. You can crash with me until this is all sorted out. Doesn’t make any sense for you to go back up to your hermit’s cave when you need round the clock care.”

“It’s not a cave!” Jensen argued.

“It’s stuck in a fucking mountain, and your closest neighbor is more than twenty miles down a road that would make Lance Armstrong piss all over himself. It’s a cave. Seriously, you’re more than welcome to use the second bedroom.”

“I’ll take the offer if you could drive me home this weekend so I could pick up some stuff.”

“Oh yeah, how’s your new book going?”

“Done with first four chapters. It’s never been this easy before, Chris.”

“Glad to hear it. And no problem about the weekend.”

Chris’ cell chirped and he looked it. Suddenly, his face turned thunderous and he said, “I’m gonna kill him.”

“It’s Steve again?”

“The son of a bitch sent me another photo!”

Jensen bit his lip in order not to laugh at his friend. “Steve is just reminding you to never make the same mistake that you made with Danneel. He's being a good friend, really ”

“That doesn’t mean he gets to rub it in!”

“Which ad is the picture from?”

“It’s from Maxim's Top 100 Issue.”

“She made that?”

Chris sighed and rubbed his face. “Yeah, she did.”

“You can always try apologizing, you know. She might take you back.”

“Hey, I never said we were exclusive. If she thought that then it was all in her head. Anyway, why the hell does he keep doing this to me?”

“Probably because he’s stuck behind a desk, bored out of his mind. I bet he thought he’d be thrown into a world of adventure when he joined Wallingford’s Police Department.”

“If he wanted excitement he should’ve stuck to his music,” Chris rumbled. “He really does have talent, you know.”

“Unfortunately for you, he’s also the best lawman Wallingford’s got and that’s including Captain Linklater who, in my opinion, should be rotting in a prison somewhere.

"Besides, don't you remember what happened last May? If Steve hadn't taken charge, Wallingford would’ve gone up in smoke when the KKK did their happy dance down Main Street.”

“Bunch of drunken fuckholes,” Chris said. “Can’t believe they allow that kind of shit to be seen by kids.”

“Your sentiment isn’t exactly in the minority but you know how that particular song and dance goes.”

“Don’t I. I’m still looking out for the asshole that called Danneel … forget it. If I keep thinking about it I’ll probably end up in the room next to yours.”

“Chris, go home, drink a cold one for me and then go to bed. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, I’ll come by tomorrow morning. Want me to bring something?”

“Oh God, yes: coffee. Make it black and bitter and _please_ make sure you get the largest cup.”

“Done! Call me if you need anything else.”

Jensen watched with gratitude as Chris ambled out the door. How he and the intense country music singer became friends was a mystery. Jensen suspected half the time Chris would’ve been only too happy to boot him in the head for all his fussing, but he had never received a single blow of genuine anger from the man. He figured Steve’s mellow personality was probably leaching into Chris’.

As if on cue Jensen’s cell rang.

“So, did he see Danneel’s pic?” Steve asked with a smile in his voice.

“That’s just plain cruel,” Jensen replied. “How’d she make it to Maxim?”

“Her television series really took off last season. Agents from NBC wooed and dined her to ink the contract for next year and one of them had major connections with the magazine’s parent company.”

“Who would’ve thought little Danny could make such a kick-ass secret agent mom?”

“I still can’t get over the fact that her character has a nine-year old son. Honestly, does she look like she could have a child that old?”

“Welcome to television land where women who are in the mid-twenties play cougars.”

“Doesn’t seem fair and yeah, I know it isn’t.”

“So I’m guessing you got the night shift?”

“A-yup,” Steve answered. “All quite here but then it’s Wallingford. Things don’t get interesting until the ski season starts and all the drunks and idiots from Boston come up with their fancy European cars that can’t handle snow for shit.”

“Has Professor Veritas-Only-When-I-Feel-Like-It paid for the damage to the snowplow?”

“Just got the fucking check. Only took him nine months. He’s still harping on how he was harassed by Wallingford’s Finest into paying for the damage.”

“You should’ve thrown him in jail after he was discharged from the hospital. That would’ve sobered him up right quick.”

“I know; it’s just that he had his kids with him and they looked so goddamn scared.”

Jensen’s smile turned soft. Steve never advertised it but he had a big heart, and children had immediately access to it – no questions asked.

“They probably were,” Jensen said. “So, did you get to talk to Danneel lately?”

“Last night actually. She’s busy filming in Toronto, but she wants to swing by if her schedule allows it.”

“That might be a problem,” Jensen said and explained the accident.

Steve sounded genuinely sympathetic to Jensen’s plight. “That sounds nasty, but she has another month of filming so don’t rule it out yet.”

“Okay then. I have to get some sleep but call me tomorrow ‘cause I’ll be even more bored than you and that’s saying something.”

“I could always send you Linklater. He’s good for a laugh or two.”

“Only if I’m terminally ill. Then I could beat the fuck out of the prick and not worry about spending time in jail.”

“Do you kiss your mom with that mouth?” Steve drawled.

“Every Christmas. Take care Steve-O.”

“Would you stop calling me that? I hate that show!”

Jensen didn’t bother to reply and chuckled as he ended the call. A soft knock grabbed his attention. He looked up to see a nurse beaming at him.

“It’s always good to see a patient smiling, especially one who had a trying day as you did.”

“Talking to a friend,” Jensen said.

“I hope so with the language you were using!”

Jensen had the grace to look chagrined. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be, I’ve heard much worse. Hell, I’ve been called worse. By the way I'm Nurse Ferris, but please call me Sam.”

“Jensen. Nice to meet you.”

Sam stared at him hard and long then said, “You’re the author of _Orphaned Lands_ , aren’t you?”

“That would be me.”

“No wonder you have a private room,” Sam said. “Most everyone on this floor love your books.”

“Really? I thought non-fiction was going extinct.”

“Not if we can help it,” Sam said. “Sorry to do this to you but I need blood samples and run a few tests to make sure you’re recuperating properly from the surgery.”

Jensen winced. “Really?”

Sam nodded. “Dr. Wang told me about what happened when they tried to put in the IV, but don’t worry about it. I don’t have to poke you to draw more blood.”

“Thank you,” Jensen said, “I know it wasn’t the nurse’s fault.”

“Oh God, Liz was so embarrassed that she had to stick a patient five times. Jesus, I don’t know how you stood the pain!”

“I was high as a kite.”

“That helps,” Sam said. She quickly ran a battery of tests and finished in less than three minutes. “See? I’m a goddess!”

“Marry me,” Jensen said dryly.

“I don’t think my husband would like that, not to mention my children,” Sam said with a wink. She packed away her gear and gave him a contrite look. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but we’re going to do this every two hours for tonight.”

“Please tell me that’s a joke!”

“Wish I could but it’s not. So, try to get some sleep, okay?”

Jensen dropped his head back into the pillow and moaned. “All right, see you at three.”

“See you then,” Sam said before turning out the lights. She exited Jensen’s room and nearly collided with the nurses whose station was just across the hall.

“Okay, so he’s cute,” Sam muttered as she briskly walked down the hall.

“He’s gorgeous!” Miranda piped. “Oh my God, the photos in his books don’t do him any justice!”

“For the love of everything holy he’s our patient, not a harem boy for us to ogle over,” Sam said in a frustrated voice. “Pray Dr. Hancock never hears any of you speaking about him like that!”

“Oh please, you’d jump him if you had half a chance,” Alice said.

Sam rolled her eyes and got into the staff elevator. “Just make sure he doesn’t croak while you’re on duty.”

“Trust me, if he burps we’ll know,” Miranda said with a beatific smile.

“Pervert!” Sam yelled before the elevator doors closed on her face.

“She likes him,” Miranda said in a singsong voice.

“Of course she does,” Alice stated smugly.

* * *

  
**One Center Plaza  
Boston, Massachusetts**

Chad Lindberg hustled into his cramped cubicle, wondering if this would be the day he’d finally be able to start planning to get the fuck out of Boston. His abhorrence of his current position had many origins but the biggest one was the simple fact Lindberg hated where he worked. The FBI office in Boston was located in a cluster of buildings that looked like it was designed by a group of ex-Stasi prisoners who never got over their imprisonment.

Lindberg logged into his e-mail account and scrolled down until an address and its subject line caught his attention. He stared at it, his hand holding the Dunkin Donuts coffee cup, poised mid-way to his lips. He glanced around before opening the e-mail. Lindberg read the three sentences and felt his blood pool somewhere near his ankles. He deleted the e-mail and turned off his computer before leaving his desk.

Lindberg went straight to Singer’s office. A group of men were talking with the field supervisor, but it looked more like a social call than a formal meeting. And though Singer was dedicated to his job, even he didn’t schedule a meeting at seven in the morning.

“Sir, I need to speak to you,” Lindberg said as soon as he entered Singer’s office. “It’s about the Bettany case.”

Singer gave a nod and turned to his visitors with a chagrined look. “Sorry, guys, this is important. I’ll think about it, okay?”

The men left the office while Lindberg fiddled with the folders in his hands. He made sure they were gone before speaking.

“Murray contacted me, sir. He wants to surface.”

“What?” Singer hissed. “What happened? Is his cover blown?”

“No, he’s saying he’s got intel that can help bring down the Barassi Family. One of their soldiers messed up big time, and believe it or not the person who screwed him over is in our custody.”

“We can work with that,” Singer said. "I'm assuming there's more?"

“There is but he didn’t say. Murray's demanding to be pulled out as soon as possible. He’s worried and if he is, we should be also.”

“All right then, let’s bring him home. He’s been undercover for over twenty months now?”

Lindberg nodded. “Almost two years. That’s got to be a record for us.”

“It most certainly is. Damn, I wonder what he has.”

* * *

  
**December, 2008  
Chelsea, Massachusetts**

Chad Murray knew he was being constantly watched in spite of the fact that his cover as Frank Mercy remained intact. Initially, he thought it was because of Russo. The man fucked up big time and his boss, Johnny Barassi, was pissed. If Murray had given a damn about Russo he might have felt bad for the guy, but Will Russo was a prick and as far as Murray was concerned, waste of air. If Johnny told him to waste the bastard Murray would’ve done it before the clock hit midnight.

Then everything went pear-shaped. Suddenly, Russo was in the clear. They watched him, of course, but he was left untouched. Murray didn’t understand why Russo was protected. After all, his mistake left a federally protected witness who could testify against him. That kind of fuckup would’ve meant immediate execution for someone who worked under Johnny Barassi, so Murray had no idea why the trigger-tempered boss personally told everyone to back off from Russo.

It didn’t take long for Murray to realize Russo was either setting up something big or was being set up for something big. Murray figured the latter since he knew Russo wasn’t exactly endowed in the thinking department. The guy was a ruthless killer, more of an attack dog than human, and his favorite method of disposal left many coroners pale with shock. But order pizza and give Russo a NYT Crossword Puzzle and you’re set for dinner and a show.

Then things got even more confusing. He discovered both he and Contadino were being tailed around the clock, and it didn’t take long after that for Murray to discover his condo was bugged. At first he thought his cover was blown, but after few weeks, he realized it was something else. His Frank Mercy was still trusted, had complete access to the monthly meetings in Rhode Island and New Jersey. In fact, Barassi had Murray personally escort him, which meant a great deal to someone of Mercy’s lowly stature.

So, Mercy was still being groomed and now it was obvious he was expected to inherit something. The question was what? And how did Russo figure into it if at all? It was frustrating for the undercover agent to be given so much information and yet have no idea what to do with it. Then Murray got hit with another curve ball, giving him no choice but to end his assignment.

Frank Mercy was invited to Barassi's annual Thanksgiving Party. Murray would’ve rather swum with sharks with both femoral arteries sliced open, but he graciously accepted the invitation and even bought a small bouquet as a gift for Barassi’s wife. Within the hour of arriving he was bored out of his mind. And though Murray wanted nothing more than to escape, he knew better than to try so early on. Instead, he opted to hide in Barassi’s library, scrunched into a white leather sofa in order to catch some much-needed sleep. It wasn't long before he dozed off, which was why Murray didn’t hear the men enter the room until one of them started laughing.

“So that’s why Russo’s still alive,” Johnny Barassi said.

“I still can't believe his plan worked.” Murray identified the voice as Ben Manzoni who was currently the head of his family.

“I know, I couldn’t believe it either. Who would’ve thought pizza head could actually come up with a scheme like that? But he did it and from what I know, his pigeon’s practically living with the moron. So, it’ll only be a matter of time before Russo’s got complete control over the fuckwit.”

"That’s going to be so sweet,” Manzoni said, his voice thick with anticipation. “Can you imagine what we can do?”

“And that’s just the beginning,” Barassi said. “But we have to first take care of Russo.”

“I’m gonna hate losing the guy,” Manzoni said. “He’s an idiot but he’s an obedient idiot.”

“Don’t worry, Mercy’s going to take his place.”

“Okay, that’s more than fair. Frank’s a good boy.”

“Did someone say my name?” Murray said in a sleepy voice and stood up.

“Yo, what the fuck are you doing here?” Barassi said, more irritated than surprised.

“I ate too much,” Murray said. “All that food made me sleepy.”

Manzoni shook his head. “Man, I don’t know where you pack it all in. You’re still skinnier than my sister’s Chihuahua.”

Murray shrugged and scratched the scruff on his chin. “Good cooking, my compliments to the missus.”

Barassi rolled his eyes. “It was catered, you fucking moron. Do you think Andrea would really slave over the stove to make all that shit?”

“Hey, then my compliments to the missus for having good taste in choosing caterers.” Murray paused for a moment and said, “Do you think there’s some tiramisu left? I could definitely go for thirds.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Barassi said good-naturedly. “And yeah, there’s still some in the kitchen if you’re interested.”

“Thanks for inviting me. It would’ve been pretty fucking miserable Thanksgiving for me if you hadn’t asked me to come.”

Barassi patted Murray’s shoulders. “You did good taking care of McHatties. That shitstorm could’ve made front page of the Globe if you weren’t so damn persuasive.”

Murray gave a lazy grin. “I just made Mr. and Mrs. McHattie understand what worse could be if they didn’t do as they were told. Nothing like cold dose of reality during Sunday dinner to make you realize how fragile your life really is.”

“Am I ever going to find out how you stuffed their cat into the lasagna?”

Murray’s grin broadened as he shook his head. “No, man, you just ate!”

“That’s true,” Barassi said. “Get going. Otherwise there won’t be anything left.”

Murray swiftly left the library and joined Andrea and her friends in the kitchen. He even managed to choke down the last slice of tiramisu before leaving Barassi's Thanksgiving extravaganza.

Murray had almost forgotten the old couple whose only sin was owning a grocery store where Andrea Barassi shopped. The wife had a bad habit of talking too much and too loudly, and Mr. McHattie had finally heard one too many horror stories to play stupid. So he contacted the police who obediently transferred him to FBI. But by then Frank Mercy had gotten to them and the older man did the wise thing and fell quiet. The FBI went away, not at all surprised by Mr. McHattie's sudden reluctance to talk.

Of all the atrocities Murray was forced to commit in order to preserve his cover that was the hardest to bear. All his other victims were just as corrupt if not worse than Johnny Barassi, but the McHatties reminded him of his grandparents and their cat was almost a dead ringer for Jewels, his own pet from childhood. Twisting the creature’s poor neck and hearing it snap had brought tears to his eyes.

Murray sat in his unlit condo, nursing his third bottle of beer when his phone rang.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hey, is this Phil who ordered extra large with sausage and peppers?”

“Fuck you.” Murray hung up and grabbed his duffel bag.

He was going home. Thank fucking God.

* * *

  
Lindberg waited for Murray in the third floor of the parking lot next to the Alewife T-stop. They had prearranged this place and thought they would meet in under a year. When that date came and went Lindberg’s fears for his friend grew, and it only gained momentum with each passing month with little to no contact from Murray. He knew once his friend went in, it would take a while before Murray surfaced, but Lindberg never suspected it would take this long.

Staccato footsteps trickled from his left and Lindberg turned to see a familiar lanky figure briskly walking towards him.

“Fuck, it’s good to see you,” Lindberg said hoarsely as he embraced Murray.

“Likewise,” Murray replied. “Let’s get out of here.”

Lindberg’s Mustang did a near 100mph as he drove his old friend away from a world he wouldn’t dare immerse himself in. It was one thing to study the mob and take apart their actions, but something completely different when you had to eat, smell and breathe that shit.

As he expected Murray remained morosely quiet. Lindberg knew his friend would have a hard time shaking off what he had done while he worked up the ranks under Barassi. Not that that concerned Lindberg. He had his best friend back safe and sound, so nothing else much mattered to the FBI agent.

Lindberg checked his watch and realized they would arrive at the debriefing twenty minutes ahead of schedule. “You want to grab something to eat? Maybe a cup of coffee or something?”

“Yeah, coffee sounds good.”

“There’s D&D nearby. Maybe we could grab couple of Boston crèmes.”

Murray smiled. “Man, I’d forgotten how much of a junk food whore you are.”

“Shut up,” Lindberg replied good-naturedly.

They each grabbed a Boston crème donut, along with French crullers and cinnamon rolls. Both agents figured the meeting would last all night and probably right through morning. Though Lindberg wasn’t officially part of the meeting, he planned on waiting for his partner to finish and then have Murray crash on his sofa. That was the only way Lindberg was going to get any rest.

The building where the debriefing was scheduled to take place was located in the outskirts of Brookline, bordering Jamaica Plain. It looked innocuous enough from the outside. Medical offices took the lion’s share of space but there were legal firms peppered throughout. One was a front for the FBI and was used for various purposes, none of which made the papers.

Singer was waiting for them in the lobby. “Jesus, kid, it’s good to see you.”

“Thank you, Sir. It’s good to be back.”

“Let’s get this show started.”

The room was tastefully if blandly furnished, with a large oval table surrounded by comfortable office chairs. There were three men waiting for the group. Lindberg figured one had to be from DC, the second from New York City and the third, a legal counsel for the FBI.

“I hear congratulations is in order,” one of the suits said. “My name is Eric Kripke. I’m from Washington.”

Lindberg mentally sniggered. One down, two to go.

“And I’m Special Agent John Shiban, from New York.”

Two down, three to go.

“And this is Mr. Nutter who is here by special request,” Kripke said.

Both Chads eyed the third man with suspicion. Nutter looked like any other middle-management employee with his non-descript looks and a growing gut that spoke of too many hours piloting the desk. And yet Kripke sounded almost worshipful when he introduced Nutter.

“My name is Chad Michael Murray. This is my friend and fellow agent Chad Lindberg who’s here by _my_ request.”

Lindberg smiled as the three men looked at him.

“I'm not sure if Special Agent Lindberg should be present," Kripke said before glancing at Nutter who remained quiet.

"I've known Chad for years," Murray said. "And he was my contact during my undercover work so he's staying."

"You guys knew each other before joining the FBI?" Kripke asked.

“Yes,” Lindberg answered. “I’m five years older but we joined the Army at the same time. When we were discharged we went through Quantico together.”

“That’s highly unusual,” Shiban commented while scribbling on his notepad.

“God definitely has a sense of humor,” Singer dryly added. "I don't think we have any time to waste, do you, Mr. Nutter?"

Nutter gave a sharp, cool glance towards Singer before looking at Kripke. "No, I guess not. Let's get started."

* * *

  
**Somerville, Massachusetts**

“They’ll let anybody in!” Chris yelled when he saw Jensen enter the bar. The writer had gotten nimble with his crutches and easily dodged chairs and feet as he made his way to Chris’ table.

“Dude, Gabriel forgot to turn on the sign again,” Jensen said.

“Turn on the fucking lights!” Chris hollered.

The bartender gave Chris an amused glance before hitting the switches.

“I think he does that on purpose,” Chris said.

“I think you’re right,” Jensen said, grinning widely.

“So what did the doctor say?”

“He says the leg is looking good but he’s worried about the kneecap. It’s not healing properly.”

“So, another surgery then?” Chris asked.

“Sounds like it, but not until January. He wants rest of the leg to heal completely before he cuts me open again.”

“Mighty fine thing to do.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jensen groused good-naturedly. “I need beer, real beer, not that water-disguised-as-alcohol crap.”

“Would your Highness like foie gras with that or the caviar?”

“Buffalo wings, the ones the roaches haven’t been dining on if it’s possible in this bar,” Jensen said as he took a look around the place. “By the way is this place really called Derelict City?”

Chris chortled and nodded. “That’s its name. I have no idea why Gabe chose it though.”

“Maybe he believes in truth in advertising.”

* * *

  
Jared stared longingly at the genuine tavern across the street. Derelict City reminded him of hot San Antonio nights, cool beers, and hamburgers made out of questionable meat. It reminded him of the few friends he had during college and the exploits they achieved under the baking sun. Jared was sorely tempted to ditch the dinner meeting in favor of beer on tap and stale peanuts. Then familiar, pulse-thumping guitar music floated out of the door, beckoning him like a siren.

_Just for a while_ , Jared thought. _Just for tonight I could be a Texas boy again_. A burst of wild cheer erupted from the bar and it became too much for Jared to ignore. He got out of his Mercedes Roadster and was about to cross the street when he heard Mike calling for him.

“C’mon, we’re going to be late.” Mike said as he jogged up to Jared. “See, I wasn’t kidding when I said Elements is in a questionable part of town, but the food is phenomenal!”

Jared slapped on a smile. “Sounds great! I’m starving!”

“That’s my boy,” Mike said.

_Time to put on my game face,_ Jared thought. _This could feed me and mine for two generations_. The thought didn’t make him feel any less of a whore though as he let Mike steer him away from the music and the rambunctious laughter.

* * *

  
**January 2009  
Portsmouth, New Hampshire**

Patrick looked at his watch and then the door. In the last five minutes alone he changed his mind at least three times. And every time he thought about bolting, he’d look at the newspaper in his hands: Jared’s beaming face looked back at him, helping him to steel his resolve.

“Mr. Connor?”

Patrick looked up to see a man who could easily pass for a kindly uncle. “That’s me.”

“I’m Bobby Singer, we talked on the phone.”

A waitress swung by and automatically filled the coffee cup in front of Singer. “What’ll you have?” she droned.

“Just coffee for now, thank you,” Bobby answered, earning a look of tired annoyance from the waitress.

Patrick looked at Jared’s photo and said, “I’m in trouble, big trouble and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“If you’re sitting here with me, I think you do know what to do,” Singer said kindly. “But you’re scared and that’s fine. I understand your fear, trust me.”

Patrick locked his gaze onto Singer’s and said, “My dad had a gambling problem. Few years ago it got really bad. He was going to lose the family business and his home if he didn’t come up with the cash. I knew someone who knew someone and that person loaned me what we needed. The interest was exorbitant but my dad and I had a great run of jobs, so it would’ve taken us until the end of this year to pay it off.

“Then the man who held the marker came calling. He wanted me to do him a favor and, in return, our debt is paid off. I said yes. I wanted to say no but he scared me shitless. I think he would’ve killed my dad and me if I turned him down.”

“Who is this man?”

“Will Russo.”

“I’m familiar with the name,” Singer said. “And you read him correctly: Russo’s extremely dangerous because he is both violent and unpredictable. So, what happened next?”

“He wanted me to hook up with someone so I could get dirt on the guy,” Patrick handed over the newspaper and tapped Jared’s picture. “This is the man.”

“Padalecki? Really?”

“Yeah. I knew it was for blackmail but I did what I was told. I’ve been with Jared for three months now and I got nothing. Jared’s clean: no steroids, no drug habits, nothing. Fuck it, he still calls his mom on Sundays.”

“So Russo's threatened you because you failed?”

“No, I found out last week that he’s going to use _me_ to blackmail Jared. The fucker set me up. If Jared doesn’t do what Russo wants him to do, he’s going to out Jared to the public.”

“Do you know if Russo has info on other members of the Celtics?”

“I’m not sure. All he needs is one smart player for his scheme to work, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had his claws into someone else on the team. That way his bets are guaranteed to pay off.”

“What are you talking about, exactly?”

Patrick looked at Singer in confusion. “You can’t be that dumb.”

“I need you to tell me, Mr. Connor. Otherwise, Mr. Russo’s lawyer will torpedo any investigation on his client.”

“Point shaving, what else?”

“Thank you for answering,” Singer said. “So, has Mr. Russo contacted Mr. Padalecki yet?”

“No, the bastard called me two days ago. He wants pictures of us having sex. Ones that Jared can’t talk his way out of.” Patrick took a deep breath and looked at Singer with anger. “I won’t do it. I can’t do it. Jared’s a great guy. He deserves better than to be treated like a piece of meat by the likes of Russo.

“And I won’t put him in the same hell I’m in now. I started this entire mess so I have to stop it too.”

“Are you willing to testify against William Russo?”

“I am, but I want protection for my dad and me.”

Bobby Singer studied the young man facing him and saw fear. He also saw courage and stubbornness. New Yorkers were the most aggressive people Singer had ever met, but New Englanders were the hardest. Piss them off and they were quite capable of setting nuns on fire. “You should know Russo works for the Mafia. He’s what we call a foot soldier. His boss is Ben Manzoni who, in turn, answers to Johnny Barassi, and so forth.

“Russo is well known to us. We suspect he was in on a gangland hit that took place last year in Las Vegas. So far we have no evidence linking him to the murders. I’m telling you this because I want you to know what you’re about to go up against.”

“Okay,” Patrick whispered and rubbed his hands together as if they suddenly turned cold. “I understand, and don’t get me wrong I’m grateful that you told me the truth, but nothing’s changed. I will not go through with Russo’s little scheme and that means my ass is still on the line.”

“I was hoping you see it that way,” Singer said. “What we need from you is to find a way to get Russo to talk about his plans. That’s hard evidence, Mr. Connor – the kind that could hold up in court.”

“And his fancy lawyers can’t get that thrown out?”

Singer shook his head. “No, and those lawyers are paid for by the Mob. They’re not going to waste much time on a losing bet.”

Patrick’s face suddenly brightened. “You’re going to flip him, aren’t you?”

Singer was surprised by how quickly Connor caught on. He shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “Russo’s surprisingly old-fashioned. Death before dishonor and all that. But once he sees how disposable he is to his superiors, he might change his tune.”

“Something else, more of a hunch, but I think Russo has a timetable,” Patrick said. “Don’t ask me why, but I get the feeling he’s desperate to see this scheme of his succeed.”

“So you have no idea why he’s setting all this up?”

“No, not at all,” Patrick answered.

Singer gave an absent nod then said, “You’ll need to speak to someone from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I know someone in the Organized Crime Division. His name is Frederic Lehne. He’ll bring you up to speed on the legal side of things. After he gives the okay, we’ll set up an operation.”

“Can we do it now? I have to go home tonight and take care of my dad. His gout’s been acting up this week.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. Let me make a call.”

* * *

  
Kripke ended the call and sat still for a moment. Nutter waited patiently, watching his protégé digest the information.

"That was Lehne from Boston," Kripke said. "They have a credible witness who is willing to testify against Will Russo."

"On what charges?"

"Racketeering, extortion, blackmail, and that's just the beginning."

"Russo's small change," Nutter said.

"You have to admit it’s an improvement since their last lead, Whitney Baker, was found swinging in his cell."

"Did the coroner confirm it as a suicide?" Nutter asked.

"Yes, thought I doubt it was," Kripke answered, “but there's no _conclusive_ evidence to suspect foul play."

"So, Singer's gunning after Russo in the hopes of flipping the meathead?"

"Something like that," Kripke answered. "If he succeeds then we have Manzoni, and that means we can tie him to the Las Vegas murders."

"And then what?" Nutter asked.

"You don't know about Singer's pet theory?"

Nutter shook his head.

"Singer thinks the Vegas hit was a response to a huge fuckup off the coast of San Diego last year."

Nutter sat up, his interest obviously perked. "San Diego … you mean the ‘Voyage of the Damned’?"

Kripke twisted his lips in disdain when Nutter uttered the catch phrase San Diego Union Tribune liberally used in the horrific discovery of a boatload of dead women few miles off the coast. Kripke said, "He thinks the Lorino Family has gotten friendly with their counterparts in East Asia and entered the slave trade. That boat was suppose to have been their first shipment. Obviously something went south since the girls were left to die in the middle of the sea.

"Anyway, Singer thinks it was Madison who fucked it up, hence the revenge killing."

"So he connects Russo to the murder and the boat, which means Manzoni and Barassi have to be in on it..."

"And those bastards only answer to one man - Tomas Lorino."

Nutter smiled. "I like it."

Kripke nodded in agreement. "By the way, what did you think of Singer's golden boy?"

"Murray? He's just like what Weston said he is: a narcissistic personality with sociopathic traits."

"How the fuck did he get past the psych profiling when he applied?"

"Who knows?" Nutter replied. "If Weston wasn't scheduled to do the final psych review before Murray went undercover nobody would've known. And it took Weston nearly two hours to figure out what Murray is under all that polish and charm."

“Do you think Singer knows what he is?” Kripke asked.

“Definitely: Bobby’s been out in the jungle far too long for Murray to have slipped by unnoticed.”

Kripke’s smile was boyish and charming. “Got to hand it to Singer. The man’s got balls using someone like that.”

“If it weren’t for that wife of his, Bobby would’ve been a force to be reckoned with in DC,” Nutter said. “But then if I had a wife like that I’d probably be where he is now.”

"I was surprised to find out Murray was actually able to establish a long-term relationship, especially with another man."

"It's not sexual, if that's what you're thinking," Nutter said.

"Oh, no, I know that. If there was anyone who fit the bill of 'wham bam thank you ma'am', it's Murray. It's just that I didn't think Murray was capable of making any emotional connection with another person, male or female."

"It is interesting, but I guess we shouldn't be surprised: we know now he is proficient at many things. What I don't get is why he joined the Bureau. Lindberg, I get. He's got a list of commendations longer than my dick, but Murray is a mystery."

"I think he applied because Lindberg did," Kripke said. "I also think Murray knew when he took the assignment that he was going to tap into that part of his brain. He's a chameleon: able to shape-shift his personality in order to appease whoever he thinks needs to be appeased. And he's been doing it for years, so it makes sense he was curious to find out how he could use that in a setting where it's socially and morally acceptable."

"What do you think would've happened if Murray wasn't accepted by the Bureau?" Nutter asked.

"Then we'd be dealing with Frank Mercy and not Chad Michael Murray," Kripke answered. "And, personally, I find that pretty goddamn frightening."


	4. Chapter 4

**January, 2009  
Logan Airport, Massachusetts**

Sterling coughed and smiled apologetically at the couple walking by him, dressed comfortably warm in their calf-length down coats. He looked down at what he thought was an appropriate winter jacket for New England winter and mentally berated himself.

The brutal weather was yet another reason Sterling was not looking forward to the job assigned to him.

“Got a light?”

Sterling looked at the two men standing to the right of him. “Yeah, I do.”

The older of the two strangers pulled out a Dunhill. “Thanks, forgot my lighter.”

Sterling lit the cigarette. “Not a problem.”

“New York really that pissed?” Manzoni asked, eyeing Sterling carefully.

“Afraid so.”

“Shit.” Manzoni took a deep drag of the cigarette before crushing it under his boot. “So, the Connor fag really talked to the Feds?”

Sterling nodded.

“Okay, well, you gotta do what you gotta do,” Manzoni gave a jerking nod at his companion. “This is my boy, Jack Contadino. You’ll need his help if you want to get around without a problem. This city’s a fucking maze and that’s no lie.”

“Thank you,” Sterling said. He knew the in-joke only too well: want to hide a body in Boston? Dump it in any of the narrow streets between Cross and Commercial before calling the police. Then sit back and enjoy the free entertainment.

Manzoni seemed to be satisfied with Sterling’s answer and left without a word to Contadino.

“So, what’s your name?” Contadino asked, visibly eager to prove his worth to his boss and to the man standing in front of him.

“Brown.”

Contadino managed to keep the smirk off his face. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to keep an eye out on Padalecki,” Sterling ordered.

Contadino brusquely asked, "Why?"

“In case Connor whispered something more than sweet nothings into his ear,” Sterling replied. The truth was he wanted to lose the fucker. Sterling was only too well aware that Contadino was ordered to spy on him and then report back to Manzoni. He knew he had Lorino’s complete trust but Manzoni wasn’t as fortunate and the man was smart enough to know it.

It was obvious Contadino was clearly unhappy with the order but he was smart enough to do as he was told. Sterling watched the stocky, psycho-eyed kid get into an elevator before moving. He took the stairs to the ground level and caught a shuttle that took him to economy parking. There, he methodically examined two rows worth of cars before he found one that he wanted.

It was a black Chevy Trailblazer with Massachusetts plate, two rear dents, and a roof rack. Its parking ticket was plainly visible on the dashboard. Sterling boosted the car within seven seconds and was approaching the New Hampshire border by the end of the hour.

* * *

  
**White Mountains, New Hampshire**

Jared peered fretfully over the dashboard before taking another look at his GPS unit. It was close to a whiteout and Highland Road was quickly becoming impassable. Jared was tempted to pull over, call Patrick and cancel his visit before making a u-turn and returning to Boston. Then he remembered Patrick’s trembling voice, pleading for Jared to visit him in Wallingford. Jared wanted to refuse but changed his mind because it gave him the chance to face Patrick and officially end their relationship. Something he was already planning to do after the away game at Seattle next weekend.

Jared sighed and checked his cell. Still no signal.

Not that he was surprised. This particular area was called 'the prettiest dead zone' by the locals for a good reason. Jared sighed in relief when he spotted a familiar rest stop. It was the only one of its kind for the forty-minute drive to Wallingford from Haven, the last town before Highland Road officially cut across the White Mountains.

Jared pulled over and parked his Mercedes, once again kicking himself for trading in his truck for a luxury vehicle that couldn't handle the unpredictable New England weather.

Jared was sprinting towards the family-owned convenience store when he spotted Patrick’s truck. He stared at it in confusion, wondering why Patrick would come out when he had specifically asked Jared to visit him at his apartment. Bewildered, Jared was almost at the door when he noticed it was ajar, allowing snow and wind to freely enter the building. The lizard part of his brain forced him to stop and peek into the store.

What Jared saw froze him to the concrete doorstep.

The cashier was slumped over the counter, his blood wildly flowing across the Formica surface and dripping onto the wooden floor. Across from him and to his right Jared saw Patrick or what was left of his part-time lover.

A large, well-built black man was frisking Patrick’s body, looking for something. Jared didn’t get a look at the killer’s face but that didn’t matter to him as anger quickly swamped his fear. Jared’s body coiled as he got ready to charge in and beat the man to the nearest emergency room, but the same primal instinct that cautioned him earlier kept him immobilized.

It was only a matter of seconds before Jared understood what was wrong. The killer’s gun was in plain sight and it wasn’t a common one. A silencer had been attached to the muzzle and the gun itself looked foreign made. No ordinary robber would have access to such a weapon.

Jared took a cautious step back, his eyes still trained on the killer. His left foot stumbled on an ice patch and Jared had to grab the handrails to prevent himself from tumbling backwards.

The wild motion he made was enough to catch the killer’s attention.

Jared turned and ran. The first bullet whizzed by his head and Jared ducked as he skidded across the icy parking lot and slammed into his car. He was fumbling for his remote when the second bullet tore through the meat of his upper right arm.

Jared screamed and dropped his keyring before sprinting away. He saw specks of ice fly up from the ground in front of him. Realizing he was being shot at, Jared veered sharply into the tree line to his right, hoping it would somehow shield him from the killer. Jared didn’t look back, instead he forced himself to run faster. And even when he hit the woods he didn’t stop. Jared continued to sprint while dodging left and right, keeping up the punishing pace for another five minutes before scrambling behind a large tree.

Jared kept his mouth closed and took shallow breaths through his nose in fear that his breath plumes would be visible even in the storm. When he heard running Jared crouched deeper into the snow mound surrounding the tree. The killer sprinted by him, not realizing his quarry had stopped. Jared watched the man disappear over a hill before packing handful of snow into a firm mass and shoving it onto the bullet wound.

The coolness was actually a welcomed relief and helped to numb the pain. Jared remained in the crouching position while cautiously moving away from the tree. He knew better than to think he could retrace his steps. And even if he could, something told him that the shooter had disabled his car in order to trap him. As the snowfall thickened Jared realized something else: that if the man couldn’t kill him, the storm would.

* * *

  
Sterling was furious with himself. He had no idea how a routine job could turn into such a clusterfuck. Part of it was bad intel, of course, and he would definitely have a talk with Manners when he finished. But he was also a professional, trained to deal with shifting scenarios and unpredictable human behavior, so he should’ve compensated immediately when he realized he had a witness.

And why the fuck was Jared Padalecki here to begin with? He was supposed to be in Boston, living it up with his teammates, not driving through a snowstorm in the dead of nowhere.

Sterling didn’t even bother to check his cell. And even if he did have a signal, whom could he call for backup? That shit-for-brains Contadino was by no means someone Sterling could trust with this job and it was Contadino who was suppose to keep tabs on Padalecki in the first place.

Sterling once more studied his surroundings and noticed in the last ten minutes the snowstorm had actually worsened. He knew Padalecki was hit at least once, probably twice. Calculating the wound and the weather, Sterling gave him twenty minutes, maybe thirty since Padalecki was a professional athlete, before shock set in. Sterling was also sure that unless Padalecki found help within the hour, he wouldn’t survive the night.

Sterling had studied the map of the area surrounding Wallingford and knew this side of the mountain was deserted with the closest human settlement more than forty minutes’ drive from the rest stop. Given little choice Sterling made his way back to the store. It took him fifteen minutes before he broke the tree line. He spotted a new car in the parking lot and quickly dodged behind the store. Sterling heard footsteps and glanced around a corner.

“Hey, I was just inside…”

Sterling grabbed Contadino by his throat and slammed him one-handed into the wall. “You dumb fuck,” Sterling snarled. “Why did you not stop Padalecki from leaving Boston?”

Contadino’s eyes widened in shock. “You told me to follow him, you didn’t say anything else!”

Sterling loosened his hold and stepped back. “Are you really that stupid?”

“Look,” Contadino croaked, “I tried calling you but I kept getting your voicemail, okay? I didn’t know what to do. And what the fuck is the problem anyway?”

“He saw me, you dumb shit,” Sterling said. “Nobody sees me, you understand that?”

“Hold on a second,” Contadino said, “are you going to kill him?”

“What does it look like, fool?!”

“No, no, he’s the goose that’s going to lay the golden egg. You can’t kill him!”

“Listen to me: Padalecki saw me. That means he can identify me, and that means the Feds have a way to connect me to your boss; you get that? Padalecki can’t live, and that’s final. And if you get in my way, I will not hesitate to put you down. Understood?”

Contadino gave a tiny nod, eyes wide with fear. “Okay, okay, so where’s the dead man?”

“In the woods. I hit him but the bastard kept running. He’s not going to survive an hour in this weather but I have to _make_ sure because that’s what I’m paid to do.”

“Okay, that’s cool,” Contadino said. “I got a police scanner. We could listen in, if you want.”

“All right, that’s a good plan. We’ll move the cars around back and wait in the store.”

“Fine with me,” Contadino answered. “I’ll move the fag’s car.”

“Be my guest.”

As Contadino made his way to the Mercedes he knew Brown was staring at him, wondering if he could be trusted. He calmly did as he was told and moved the car. However, once he parked the Roadster in the back, Contadino checked his cell. Still no signal.

As he made his way to the front to move his Acura, an idea struck him. There was another way to make sure Padalecki was never connected to Manzoni: kill the assassin.

Contadino felt sweat soak through his undershirt and forced himself to calm down before collecting the police scanner and a backup piece he kept for emergencies. Contadino knew his so-called partner saw him tucking away his Browning so he needed a second gun if he was able to reach Manzoni and receive the go-ahead to smoke the hitman.

_I have to play it smart_ , Contadino thought as he made his way to the store. _And be patient_.

* * *

  
**Carver's Rest, New Hampshire**

Jared’s right hand was slowly freezing because of the blood coating it. What’s left of his common sense railed at him to take care of the problem, but he couldn’t force himself to care. He was tired, so tired that the cold had ceased to be a problem some time ago.

Jared checked his watch by moonlight and saw he had wasted whole five minutes taking shelter under a large tree. He looked up at the snow-choked branches and remembered Jack London’s _To Build a Fire_ : a horrific short story that his mother had assigned to all her classes. He had been entranced and shocked by the tale and swore he would never end up in the same situation as the pathetic bastard from the story.

_Well, fuck me sideways_ Jared thought and laughed wildly. Part of Jared wanted to stay where he was and try to build some sort of a shelter but another part kept urging him to get up and continue walking. Where, he hadn’t a clue, but the second voice kept insisting that if he stayed put he wouldn’t survive another twenty minutes.

With a soft groan Jared pulled himself up and started walking. He’d taken ten steps when his caught a scent. For a moment Jared thought he was hallucinating as it was impossible to _smell_ warmth, but his senses would not be denied. He whirled around, looking for something, anything that could give him shelter.

It was the snow that almost made him miss, but he saw to his left a faint trace of white in the air that hinted of something else besides snow. Jared started plodding, thinking of a way to explain his situation without scaring the hell out of the people – if there were people and he wasn’t imagining the smoke because he was losing it.

Jared crested a steep hill and came to a standstill as a homestead came into view. He suddenly burst into tears and fell to his knees twice as he laboriously made his way up the porch, hoping he wouldn’t trip and die only inches away from help. He leaned on the door and banged on it with all the desperation he felt.

Jared heard “who the fuck now,” from inside and only then did he allow himself to feel relief. He heard weird scraping noises from inside the house before the door swung halfway open. For the second time in less than ninety minutes Jared was completely taken back.

The man who opened the door was in a wheelchair with his right leg resting on a board that stuck straight out of the seat. It was obvious he was in some hideous accident as the contraption reminded Jared of Holden’s injuries.

“What the fuck happened to you?” the stranger asked, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“I need help,” Jared said. “I was shot.”

“Jesus Christ, come in!”

The man expertly wheeled himself aside, allowing Jared to enter his warm home.

“Can you walk?” the man asked.

Jared nodded weakly. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Follow me, let me get you something hot to drink.”

Jared docilely followed to the kitchen where the scent of freshly brewed coffee hit him much like the storm did when he had stepped out of his car at the rest stop eons ago. The owner poured him a large mug and added enough sugar to make Jared wonder if he finally met someone who had even a bigger sweet tooth than he did. He gracefully wheeled himself to the microwave where he popped in a mug of water.

“You’re dehydrated. The sugar’s to revive you a bit,” the man explained. “The caffeine isn’t good for you, actually, but I figure you need something to keep you awake. The water’s going to be hot but you need to finish it, okay?”

“Thank you,” Jared said with complete sincerity. “My name is Jared Padalecki.”

"I thought you looked familiar. I’m Jensen Ackles,” the stranger said. “Who the hell shot you?”

“I stopped at the store on Highland Road. A black man shot the cashier and a friend of mine and tried to kill me when I took off,” Jared babbled, his voice rising with hysteria. “He was fucking huge and the gun he had was something you'd see in the movies. He chased me in this storm but I managed to get away.”

“Fuck, I know the owner,” Jensen whispered. “The cashier, was he a blond kid?”

Jared paused to think. “I didn’t see the guy’s face but yeah, he had long blond hair.”

“That’s Evan, he’s the owner’s son,” Jensen said. “We need to call the police.”

“You have a land line?”

“Yeah, and it works. My satellite phone’s broken though. I tried it earlier but got nothing.”

Jensen reached for an old-fashioned wall phone and dialed. Jared felt himself thaw further when he heard the dial tone.

“Steve? Is that you? You’re not going to believe this but I have Jared Padalecki … yeah, that one, in my house. He just came from Laramie’s store. He says a black gunman killed Evan and his friend then chased him and managed to shoot him too. No, Padalecki’s friend, not Evan’s.”

Jared stared blankly at Jensen and realized the shock from the gunshot was starting to overwhelm him. Now that he was at rest, his adrenalin was no longer spicing up his blood. Jared closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. It felt so good to finally stop he never wanted to start up again.

“Okay, we’ll be here,” Jensen said. “Good luck, Steve.”

“You know the police captain?” Jared asked.

“No, Steve is his sergeant. The captain’s off at some conference in Orlando this week.”

“Lucky me.”

“You are lucky. Hey, buddy, finish your drinks. I’m going to get my first aid kit.”

Jared stood up straight. “I’ll go with you.”

Jensen recognized abandonment issues when he saw them. “Sure, it’s right down the hall.”

Jensen found his first aid kit and a new U.T. sweatshirt jammed under two large toolboxes. He managed to wrangle them out of the hallway closet but not without bruises.

“I could’ve helped,” Jared said.

“Dude, you can barely stand on your feet,” Jensen said. “C’mon, let’s go back to the kitchen. It’s the warmest part of the house.”

Jensen waited patiently as Jared took off his many layers, wincing in sympathy when Jared took off the last shirt and yelped because the blood glued the fabric to the wound.

Jensen soaked four sterile pads with iodine. “This isn’t going to hurt, much, but you’re free to scream if you feel like it.”

“Too tired to scream,” Jared said. “Too tired to feel actually.”

Jensen cleaned the wound and gave a low whistle as he examined the wound closely. “It’s a through and through – you got lucky.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Trust me, the last thing you want is live ammo jammed inside your body.”

“You sound like you had experience with such things.” Jared teased light-heartedly, surprised that he still retained his sense of humor after everything.

“Personal, no, thank God. But I know people who weren’t so lucky.”

“Are you a cop or something?” Jared asked.

“You think I am?”

“Kind of; you seem familiar with gunshot wounds, you have a fully stocked medical kit that looks like it could be used in a war. And you’re on first-name basis with the local police department.”

“I’m a writer.”

“Are you serious? Published and all that?”

Jensen nodded. “Published two books, writing a third now.”

“Let me guess: detective novels, right?”

“Historical non-fiction, and the only crimes I write about are what human beings do to each other every day.”

“Sounds cheerful.”

“It’s not most of the time, but I love my job. I wouldn’t want to trade it for anything else.”

“Not even for a position in the Celtics?”

Jensen looked up at Jared and grinned. “Not even for that, sorry to say. But it’s a whole different game if we’re talking about the Mavericks.”

“Mavericks?” Jared frowned in confusion. “Why them? They suck.”

“That’s my hometown you’re pissing on.”

“Dallas doesn’t suck,” Jared said quickly.

“But the Mavericks do, I know,” Jensen said, defeat heavily lacing his words. “How’s the arm now?”

Jared cautiously bended it and felt the tightness that comes with wounds. “It’s better, doesn’t hurt as much. What did you put on it?”

“Just a small amount of topical lidocaine. It’s minimum help at best but something’s better than nothing.”

Jared nodded and examined the gauze tightly wrapped around his arm. “I’m impressed. Are all writers as well-rounded as you?”

“I don’t know. I met Stephen King several times. He’s surprisingly normal compared to what comes out of his computer. Poor guy, he has to have bodyguards when he goes out for public get-togethers because he’s got so many crazies gunning after him.”

“And you don’t have over-eager fans loitering around town, looking for a chance to jump you?”

Jensen’s telltale blush told the truth.

Jared was struggling to put on the U.T. sweatshirt when he remembered where he'd heard Jensen’s name. “Oh hell, Tom loves your books. He’s been trying to make me and Justin read them for months now.”

“I gather he’s not successful,” Jensen said dryly.

“Your first book is bigger than my head.” Jared defended himself. “And the second one could be used as a roadblock.”

“Imagine writing that many words and then complain about reading them.”

“Okay, you got me there.”

Jared gave a genuine smile and for a moment Jensen was dazzled by it. It was extraordinary that the man still retained his sense of humor after all he had endured. If Jensen were in his shoes, he would’ve barricaded himself in the bathroom before sucking down bottle after bottle of tequila to steady his nerves.

“Do you want some painkillers?” Jensen asked. “I scored some serious heavies because of my knee.”

Jared shook his head. “No, I have to stay clean.”

“Dude, you’ve been shot. I think the NBA can forgive you if you took one Vicodin pill to help with the pain.”

“I don’t want any but thanks for asking.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“What?” Jared asked.

“You don’t come across as a control freak,” Jensen said with a questioning look.

“My legs alone have been insured for two million dollars,” Jared said. “When people say their body is their temple, they haven’t got a fucking clue what they’re talking about.”

“Advil then?”

“Tylenol?” Jared asked. “They work better for me.”

“It’s in the cabinet next to the refrigerator.”

Jared found them along with six prescription bottles. “How bad is your injury?”

“I had my second surgery two weeks ago. It’s been months since I got hurt but I broke bones and they’re not healing properly.”

“Oh man, that sucks,” Jared said as he popped two Tylenols and washed them down with orange juice. He returned to breakfast table with two bottles of beer. “I thought you might want one.”

“Thanks,” Jensen said. “I’ve been meaning to ask – what are you doing here? Doesn’t Boston have an away game this weekend?”

“I have a friend who lives near here. He called me and asked for my help. He sounded so bad that I had to come up.”

“Was he the one killed?”

Jared jerked a nod and let out a deep sigh. “He was at that rest stop but I don’t know why. I was suppose to meet him at his apartment.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Patrick Connor.” Jared saw Jensen’s face pale dramatically. “You know him?”

“Wallingford’s pretty small town so, yeah, I know him. His father is a real piece of work. He’ll probably bitch nonstop about paying for Patrick’s funeral.”

“Jesus, Pat never said anything about his dad except he has gout.”

“Oh he has that all right,” Jensen said. “He also had a bad gambling habit and a temper. He would’ve lost his business if it hadn’t been for his son. Patrick must have one hell of a talent for numbers.”

“Patrick?” Jared remembered numerous occasions when he had to check the restaurant bill because Patrick couldn’t properly calculate the tip.

“Yeah, didn’t…” Jensen couldn’t finish his sentence as the phone rang.

“It’s me,” Jensen answered. He paused for a moment before looking at Jared. “Okay, will do.”

Jared immediately tensed up and said, “What happened?”

Jensen hung up the receiver and studied his guest with piercing look. “That was Steve. He was at the store and found the bodies. He says it wasn’t a holdup. The cash is still in the drawer and the wallets were left untouched.

“What’s going on, Jared?”

Jared cringed a little at coolness in Jensen’s tone. “I saw the killer, he had this motherfucking huge gun and it ... oh Jesus, how could I forget? It had a silencer.”

“A silencer?” Jensen echoed. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, and he was good shot too. I mean I’m not easy to miss but he only had moonlight and he still managed to hit me.”

“That doesn’t sound like a robbery, Jared. That sounds awfully like a hit. I know Evan Laramie’s not into anything that can bring down that much grief so it had to be Patrick.

“Jared, do you have any idea what he wanted to talk to you about?”

Jared shook his head. “No, he said it was an emergency and he really needed to talk to me. He sounded frantic so I came.”

“Frantic or scared?”

Jared couldn’t answer so he just shrugged.

“So, we have to assume Patrick was the target, or…” Jensen faded away as he stared at Jared.

“Or?” Jared prompted.

“Or you are.”

“Me?” Jared squawked. “Who the hell wants to kill me?”

“You’re a professional athlete and a celebrity, Jared. That attracts all kind of psychos.”

“Psychos with day jobs as hitmen?”

Jensen took a long time to answer. “Okay, maybe this guy isn’t some psycho fan, but you had a big part in the Celtics winning last year, and from what I’ve read you guys are doing it again this season. Am I right?”

Jared nodded weakly. “Yeah, we’re having a great year but people don’t kill athletes because they’re doing what they’re paid to do. If that were true ESPN wouldn’t exist.”

“But if something happened to you, what are the chances of the Celtics reaching playoffs again?”

Jared shrugged and looked at his blood-spattered boots. “They’ll have a hard time but it’s not impossible for them to win again.”

Jensen noticed the 'they' in Jared's explanation. “This is not the time to play humble boy from Texas.”

“I honestly don’t know,” Jared replied heatedly. “Gaines was a decent trade and he’s doing pretty damn good for a new kid. Even Tom thinks Jamie’s got serious potential.”

“Okay, maybe that’s a wrong angle then, but there’s someone out there who wants to hurt you bad, and whoever he is, he’s not an amateur.”

“You don’t think he’s gone, do you?” Jared asked.

Jensen shook his head and looked thoughtfully at Jared. “No, I’m afraid not. Maybe you don’t know why this is happening to you, but that guy does, and I think he wants you dead because of it.”

* * *

  
“Are you sure your friend wasn’t pulling your chain?” Police Officer Nathan Donaldson asked as he grabbed his coat and hat. “Writers have a weird sense of humor.”

“No, he was serious about this, Nathan. Grab the satellite phone, the cell’s still out.”

Nathan nodded and dug into Linklater’s personal locker for the only satellite phone in the police department and the entire town of Wallingford.

Steve was almost out the door when his cousin sauntered in. “Hey, Chris,” Steve said. “Look, I’m sorry you came all the way here but I have to go. There’s a real mess at Laramie’s.”

Chris’ loose posture immediately tightened.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked.

“I knew something was wrong but I couldn’t figure out what. Laramie’s store wasn’t lit when I drove by. I wasn’t going to stop but I’ve never seen it closed before.” Chris saw Steve’s face lose its usual openness. “I’ll go with you.”

Steve knew he shouldn’t allow a civilian to ride with him, much less enter a crime scene, but Chris knew how to handle firearms better than anyone he'd ever met. “Okay, but you take your jeep.”

“Not a problem.”

“Chris, you still have your gun in the car?”

“Why you asking?”

“Just in case,” Steve answered.

Chris stared hard at his friend then said, “Awww shit.”

“And we’re about to walk into it.”

Steve had little problem driving through the storm and was glad to see Chris had no difficulties either. Nathan’s tense position grew more taut they approached Laramie’s store.

“Steve, I got a bad feeling about this,” Nathan said. “If Jensen wasn’t bullshitting, that means Evan’s dead.”

“I know,” Steve said.

“I went to his baptism. Hell, I bought him his first Playboy for his thirteenth birthday. What the fuck am I going to tell Emma and Roger?”

“Don’t think about that right now, Nathan. Just concentrate on what we need to do for the next five minutes.” Steve saw Nathan reach for the switches that would turn on the police lights and stopped him. “We’re going in dark.”

Nathan’s gaze hardened. “You think the killer’s still there, don’t you?”

“Big black guy armed with an elephant gun and who could track a person in this snow storm - tell me, do you know anyone in Wallingford who could have even a passing acquaintance with such a man?”

“Jesus Christ, I should’ve brought Big Mama.”

“Rifles don’t work well in close range, Nathan. You have your backup, right?”

Nathan nodded. “Yeah, switched from ankle to back when I had to start wearing my winter boots.”

“Have extra clips?”

“Just one.”

“Keep it where it’s easy to reach.”

Nathan nervously checked it to make sure it was fully loaded before tucking it inside his jacket. What scared the him the most was how worried his sergeant was. Steve was usually very easy going and able to defuse situations that could explode into lethal violence with just words. But now Steve’s tone was clipped and his words economical. That meant whatever situation they were heading into, Steve had already decided that good manners and civilized behavior were useless. Nathan had been in law enforcement long enough to know nothing good could come out of such thinking.

He didn’t see the store in the darkness and what he didn’t see confirmed his worst fears. The building was unlit and it shouldn’t have been.

“This is officially a FUBAR,” Steve said as he parked the cruiser. “I’ve never seen the store closed save for the holidays.”

“Me neither,” Nathan said. “Do you want me to call for help?”

“Not yet, Jensen said there was one shooter.”

The two officers got out of the car and waited until Chris joined them.

“Do you want me to stay out front?” Chris asked.

Steve nodded. “I don’t see any cars. That means somebody hid them before closing the store.”

“So the son of a bitch _is_ still in there,” Nathan said. He pulled out his gun and took a deep breath.

“We’ll go through the back; see if we can flush the bastard out the front.”

“I’ll be here,” Chris said and caught the worried look on Steve’s face. “Don’t worry, honey, I ain’t no hero.”

Steve grinned and tapped Nathan’s shoulder. Chris quickly lost sight of them as the two men bolted into the night. He slowly made his way to the building, looking at the windows for any telltale sign of movement. Chris knew whoever was in the building could barely see three feet from the window, but they probably had adjusted to their environment and was more aware of what was happening around them than he was.

Chris crouched behind a gas pump, looking around and trying to listen for any identifiable sound aside from the howling wind. He knew human beings made noises that were systematic: footsteps, breathing, they all had rhythm apart from the chaos surrounding him. Once Chris filtered out the wind, he would hopefully be able to pinpoint the noise the killer would make if he tried to escape.

As it turned out, Chris didn’t have to. The lights suddenly turned on in the store and the parking lot. Steve walked out and shouted, “It’s clear!”

Chris didn’t holster his gun out of precaution and took his time entering the building. He saw the cashier first and winced. Then he spotted the second body. The man was facing the ceiling, a neat hole drilled into his left eye socket, another in his throat.

“The shooter came through the front, shot Evan once and then took out Patrick,” Steve said.

“You guys should see this,” Nathan said from the back office.

He pointed at a mug sitting next to a freshly-made pot of coffee. It was only half-full.  
  
“Son of a bitch,” Steve said.

Chris took a cigarette that was lying on top of a computer keyboard and blew gently on the tip. It relit.

“Fuck, we missed him by seconds,” Steve hissed.

“He probably saw the cars,” Chris said, “and took off through the back.”

“Where’s he going in this storm?” Nathan asked.

“Good question,” Steve said. “I’m going to call Jensen and tell him to be careful. This isn’t an ordinary stick-up gone wrong. This is something much, much worse.”

“The bastard probably had a car parked down the road,” Chris added. “This guy has a plan and he’s not done. That’s why he was waiting here, in the dark.”

“But why wait here?” Nathan asked.

“Because it was the most convenient one at the time,” Steve answered. “Which means he’s going to find somewhere else to shack up. Nathan, tell Sharon to call everyone on the emergency list. We’re going to have to start doing door to door to make sure this badass isn’t sitting in someone’s living room, having coffee and smoking cigarettes.”

Steve called Jensen to warn him to be careful while Nathan used the police radio to contact dispatch in order to haul in anyone who was capable of lending a hand. He ran back to the building to find Steve and Chris combing the area around Patrick’s body.

“Sharon said Tessie can’t come. She also says Oberon Pass is completely blocked because of the storm.”

“So that means Jensen can’t come down either,” Steve said, “which is good news, actually. If he can’t come down, nobody can go up either.”

“We should contact Patrick’s dad,” Nathan said.

Steve moaned loudly and closed his eyes. “Oh, that should be a fucking joy.”

“I’ll handle Larry,” Nathan said. “I know the guy pretty well.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, “I’ll go back to the station and wait for help.”

Chris handed his car keys to Nathan. “Take my jeep, that way you don’t have to double back into town.”

Nathan gave a nod of appreciation and left.

Steve said, “If this was deliberate, it means Patrick was the target.”

“Do you know what could’ve brought this on ‘cause this is big city shit.”

“Maybe; about three years ago there was some talk about Larry’s gambling debts. Everyone thought he was going to lose his business when Patrick swooped in and saved it at the last minute. Nobody knew how; the kid didn’t have much and I know the two banks in town didn’t loan him the cash. I figured Patrick must have borrowed from a bank outside Wallingford because he was too embarrassed to ask for a loan from somebody he knew.”

“Do you know how much?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars was what I heard.”

“That’s pretty big loan,” Chris said. “And Patrick’s what? Twenty-four, twenty-five years old?”

“He was twenty-two when he got the money so there was a lot of talk about how he got it. Nobody bothered to ask, though.” Steve stared at Patrick’s ruined face. “Maybe we should’ve.”

“What I don’t like is why the guy was waiting,” Chris said.

“Padalecki got a good look at him before he bolted,” Steve explained.

“So the shooter knows there’s a witness.”

“Which is why he stuck around. He wanted to see if the kid found help before freezing to death in the woods.”

“And he got his answer,” Chris said. “The Pass is closed?”

Steve nodded. “The only way anyone could get up there are with the snowplows and they’re all being used right now. Nobody can get to Jensen, Chris, so he’s safe for now.”

“But as soon as we can we’re taking a plow and getting them, right?”

“That’s the plan,” Steve said. “I don’t like the idea of a murder witness sitting with Jensen who’s still in a wheelchair. It stinks of bad karma.”

* * *

  
Nathan cautiously drove to Connor’s farm. It was only three miles outside of Wallingford but the plows haven’t been through for a while, making the roads treacherous. He saw the farm lights from a distance and sighed in relief. He had never felt threatened by snow before. Nathan grew up in Wallingford, attended University of New Hampshire, and when he graduated he marched right back home. But now, after witnessing the aftermath of what he knew was a ruthless execution, the cold would be forever associated with the bloodbath in Laramie’s store.

He parked the truck and had taken the keys out of ignition when Sterling rose up from the back seat, grabbed his head and broke his neck with one brutal twist of his hands. Sterling had hidden nearby and eavesdropped on the conversation inside the store. When he realized that the police officer was going out to see Larry Connor, he decided to hitch along.

Sterling wasn’t sure how much the father knew, but even a sliver of information connecting Patrick Connor to Russo and the Manzoni Family was unacceptable to the people in New York.

Sterling put on his glasses that had clear lens. He was a big man, and black, so to many people he automatically looked threatening. However, that perception changed when he wore glasses. He pulled up the collar to his coat and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets before walking up to the front door and knocking frantically.

Larry Connor opened the door slightly and jerked back in surprise. Sterling didn’t miss the look of relief and confusion on the man’s face.

“I am so sorry to bother you,” Sterling gushed while rubbing his arms and stomping his feet as if he was trying to get his circulation going. “But I couldn’t drive any further and I saw your lights. I was wondering if I could call for help? My cell’s not working.”

“Sure, come in.”

“Thanks so much. Jesus, I flew in from Georgia just yesterday! My buddy never warned me about the storm.”

“That’s because your friend’s probably used to this shit by now and didn’t think much of it,” Connor said. “The phone’s right over there.”

“Thanks.” Sterling took out his gun and shot Connor once in the head. He left the body undisturbed and started hunting for the phone.

Sterling had no choice but to kill the old man. Obviously Patrick had told his father about his mafia connections, which was why Connor Sr. looked relieved to see Sterling standing in front of his doorsteps.

After all, what self-respecting Mafioso would hire a black man to do his job?

Sterling found a phone in the kitchen. He dialed a number and ended the call on the fourth ring. He then redialed the same number.

“What’s up?” Manzoni asked.

“Your pet dog’s fucked up everything,” Sterling said in a cold tone. “He lost Padalecki in Boston and the man ended up here. He saw everything, Manzoni. He saw me kill Connor.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What I’m paid to do. Clean up the fucking mess and that means your golden boy’s going to be taken out of the picture. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah, I do. I can’t say I like it, but Russo had other fishes on his hooks so we can afford to lose this one.”

“I also took care of Connor Senior. It looks like his son told him everything.”

“What’s the count?”

“Four so far. I expect six.”

“Two more? Who else besides the Jared kid?”

“Padalecki’s holed up in the mountain with someone, which should be impossible according to the information you handed over to New York,” Sterling said. “From what I read there’s nobody living up there.”

“There shouldn’t be. There was a retreat of some sort that got burned down four years ago, but that’s it.”

“Find out if the property went up for sale, and if so, who the fuck bought it.”

“Give me few minutes. Can I use this number?”

“Yes.”

Sterling ended the call. As he looked around, it became obvious all the furniture were handmade and with great attention to detail. Sterling felt sorry for killing the Connor men, for they were gifted artists married to their craft. Sterling was called many things, some quite unpleasant, but he was never indicted as an iconoclast.

The phone rang. He waited for the second call before answering.

“Someone did buy the fucking place,” Manzoni said, embarrassment coloring his voice. “His name is Jensen R. Ackles. He built a goddamn house on the same spot where the resort was. Why the fuck would anyone want to build a house where another burned down?”

“Did you say Jensen Ackles?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Only by reputation,” Sterling said. “More importantly, Contadino is fucking it up right and left. What do you want me to do with him?”

“I like having him around but if he gets too much to handle, deal with him. He’s replaceable.”

“All right then,” Sterling said. “I won’t contact you until this is cleaned up, so don’t bother me. Am I clear?”

“As a bell. Good luck.”

* * *

  
**Boston, Massachusetts**

Ben Manzoni looked at the cell, his lips curled up in disgust and frustration. “Motherfucking nigger tells me what to do? Fuck that.”

He used another pre-paid cell to make a call. “It’s me. The White Mountains job went fuck-all.”

“What happened?” Barassi asked.

“The nigger told me Contadino fucked it to hell. I’m not buying it. Contadino's smart and reliable. And He does as he’s told so if...”

“Listen to me carefully. I got a call from New York before he came. The orders are clear, Ben. The nigger’s got the green light. We fuck with him, we won’t see sunrise. Do you understand?”

“Why the fuck does that…”

“Listen to me, you dumb wop,” Johnny Barassi hissed. “The son of a bitch does real heavy work for us. We’re talking federally protected witnesses! Trust me when I say this guy doesn’t care who’s your daddy. If he wants you dead, that’s it: end of story. Contadino’s gone, just accept it and move on.”

“I still don’t like it,” Manzoni complained but with great deal less venom.

“Ben, _let it go_. Did you handle Russo?”

“I’m about to. Want me to tell him anything?”

“Why the fuck would I want to waste words on that sack of shit? Just clean it up.”

“All right. I’ll call you when I hear something.”

“Sorry about Jack.”

“Thanks.”

Manzoni drove his car, checking frequently to see if he had his usual followers. There was a familiar Camry three cars behind his Lexus that steadfastly followed him into downtown Boston. Manzoni left his car in the parking lot belonging to Ritz Carlton located right next to Chinatown. He exited the hotel through the main lobby, made a left, and briskly walked through Boston Commons towards Newbury Street. The busy shopping district was renowned for bad traffic and by the time he reached corner of Newbury and Mass Ave, he had lost the men tracking him.

He turned left on Mass Ave and went down to the Hynes Convention Center T-station where he caught the D line to Riverside. Manzoni got out at the last stop and spotted Jason, his driver, waiting for him in the parking lot. It took them thirty minutes to reach Mather's Rest. The gates to the cemetery were closed but Jason had the key to the padlock and the Jaguar quietly crept into the heart of the place.

Manzoni saw the figures lit up by the headlights and smiled. This was going to be satisfying. Not as satisfying as forcing the cleaner from New York to eat his own vomit, but Manzoni was the kind of guy who was happy to take what he could get.

“I have to say I’m going to miss you Will,” he softly said as he approached the three men. “But you have to admit you fucked up big time.”

Russo opened the only eye he had left and gave a baleful glare at his former boss.

“Gotta say, I admire your little scheme. It has certain panache to it,” Manzoni said. “And you did some good work for me so I’ll make this quick.”

He gave a nod to the two men towering over Russo. They dragged their prisoner to the edge of the open grave. When Russo saw what was in the hole, a low keening sound drifted into the air.

“I liked them too, Will,” Manzoni said. “But orders are orders, and I was told to take care of all of you. If it helps, your kids died quick; so did Bella.”

Russo didn’t pay any attention to Manzoni and continued to wail through his shattered jaw.

“Shut the fucker up,” Manzoni groused.

Jason shot Russo twice and shoved his corpse into the grave to join his family. Then the two men threw enough dirt into the hole to level it before putting the coffin back into it. They covered the grave with more dirt and placed the sod back on top of it.

Manzoni didn’t like to toss bodies into rivers and the Atlantic like the rest of his kin. If at all possible, he used cemeteries and Mather's Rest was currently his favorite.

_At least they’re buried in sacred ground_ , Manzoni thought as he returned to Boston. _Bella should appreciate that, after all she and her kids were devout Catholics_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Wallingford, New Hampshire**

Chris looked at his watch. “Exactly how bad a driver is your deputy?”

"Nathan's not _my_ deputy. In fact, he's not a deputy at all,” Steve said patiently. “He’s probably snowed in at Connor’s place. Do you want me to call them?”

“No, forget it,” Chris said. “Something else bothers me. Padalecki said he saw a black guy, right?”

Steve smiled a little. “Yeah, I was wondering about that too.”

“How does the joke go? Hear gunshots, look for the scariest black guy around,” Chris said dryly. “Looking for a big black man in Wallingford’s going to be pretty easy, and he’s got to know that. I’m not saying Wallingford’s knee-deep in racists-r-us, but the shooter’s going to have a hard time getting people to let him in unless he beats the crap out of them first.”

“And if that happens, the door-to-door’s fucked from the get-go.” Steve finished Chris’ train of logic. “Days like today make me wish I never applied for this fucking job.”

“I changed my mind: make the call. See what’s holding up Nathan.”

Connor’s phone rang with no answer.

“Motherfucker,” Steve said and slammed the receiver into its cradle. “We have to go, now.”

“This time we take back-up. If the bastard’s there, we can’t afford to let him get away a second time,” Chris said.

“Agreed.”

Steve had Sharon make a few calls before heading out with Chris. Their cruiser was joined by two trucks as they left Wallingford proper and into the farming lands. It didn’t take long for the caravan to find Connor’s home as the fire that was raging through the building brilliantly lit the night sky in spite of the snowstorm.

“Jesus,” Steve said as he and Chris got out of the cruiser.

The three volunteers piled out of their trucks, faces pale with shock as they watched the fire consume everything.

Chris looked around the main house, hoping to find Donaldson. He came away empty-handed. Steve ordered the men to fan out about the property but they were also unsuccessful, and no one could approach the building because of the heat.

Steve helplessly watched as the roof collapsed, bringing down the second story with it. “Oh dear God, Nathan...”

Chris turned to his friend and saw tears flicker in Steve’s eyes. “You can’t think about Nathan right now. We have an emergency.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have to get to Jensen. The bastard’s went after Larry because he suspected Patrick told his father something," Chris said. “And that leaves just one other person he has to take care of: Padalecki. We have to call Jensen right now. Have him meet us at the Pass or have him arm himself until we get him.”

“Okay,” Steve said. “Let’s go back to the station. This is now officially a manhunt _and_ a rescue operation.”

* * *

  
Earl Hanford moaned as he got into his old Subaru. _No matter what the good mayor says about these new plows, It’s colder than a witch’s tit inside the damn things_ , Earl thought as he cranked up the car’s heater to maximum. In spite of his discomfort, Earl actually smiled as he watched the snowfall. They got lucky: this was the first snowstorm of this strength and it was already January. If history were anything to go by, Wallingford would be hit with only two more blizzards of this magnitude before March.

_Good for us, bad for the skiers_ , Earl thought as he wiggled his fingers in order to get rid of the tingling. _Well, fuck ‘em. Bunch of rich assholes…_

“Don’t move,” Sterling said as he pressed the muzzle of his gun against the back of Earl’s skull.

“Jesus, take what you want. I’m no hero,” Earl pleaded.

“That’s good. That’s very good, keep thinking like that and you’ll live. Give me your wallet.”

Earl handed it over his shoulder. Sterling quickly flipped through the family photos and read the license. He returned the wallet and said, “Earl, I know your name and I know where you live. I also know you have wife and daughter, and what they look like. Are you hearing me, Earl?”

“Yes, yes, I swear I won’t do anything stupid. Just tell me what you want.”

“How many snowplows are out there right now?”

“From Wallingford – just three. The state’s too busy with the highways and don’t bother with small towns like us until sunrise.”

“Good, I see you’re a smart man for telling me the truth. I want you to call the other two and get them here. Tell them you have mechanical problems, tell them anything you want. But I want them here, Earl, and I want them here within thirty minutes.

“Think you can do that, Earl?”

“I can get them here,” Earl said. He closed his eyes then asked weakly, “Are you going to hurt them?”

“No, actually, I just need the snowplows. All of them.” Sterling tapped the gun against Earl’s temple and said, “Do it now, please.”

“Okay, okay.”

Earl did exactly as he was told and was proven good on his word when both snowplows showed up in twenty minutes. Unfortunately, Earl wasn’t conscious to celebrate this fact. The other two drivers, Isaiah Johnson and Seb Mason, soon joined their buddy as Sterling also managed to render them unconscious. He jammed the three men into Earl’s snowplow before disabling its engine.

Sterling knew leaving them alive was breaking protocol but he didn’t want to shed any more blood than necessary. Besides, what would Earl tell the police? He didn’t see Sterling and voice identification would be laughed out of court if it were admissible to begin with.

Sterling disabled the second plow but commandeered the third. He climbed into the cockpit and familiarized himself with the controls while Contadino struggled to maneuver the Trailblazer onto the road from its hiding spot. As soon as this fucking mess was over Sterling was going to make Contadino bleed. Because of that asshole, he was now forced to deal with Padalecki in an environment Sterling was uncomfortable with. And there was also the fact the basketball player was holed up with Sterling’s favorite author.

It was a rare thing indeed to move the assassin emotionally and spiritually, but Ackles’ novels had succeeded in doing both. Sterling admired the writer for his unflinching love of the truth, no matter how unpleasant it was, and Ackles’ sparse style actually added a level of candor and pathos that no flowery descriptions could.

_I don’t want to kill him_ , Sterling finally admitted to himself. _I admire Ackles and I don’t want to be the reason for his absence in the world. I look forward to reading his books and there’s so little that could hold my interest these days._

Sterling vowed if Ackles had to die alongside Padalecki, then Contadino would join them. He saw Manzoni’s lap dog get out of the truck and make his way to him. Sterling stepped out of the snowplow but didn’t climb down, which forced Contadino to look up at him.

“What do we do now?” Contadino asked as he noticed the other two plows, now deadweight, parked on the side of the road.

“We’re going to get Padalecki,” Sterling answered. “You take the car and follow me.”

Sterling started the snowplow and cautiously drove into the night with the Chevy trailing behind him like a crippled animal. Even at top speed it took them over an hour to reach Ackles’ home. After hiding their respective rides in the woods, the two men scoped the homestead from top of a nearby hill.

Sterling noted a dilapidated barn, a small tool shed, and a garage separate from the main house; Sterling guessed it was probably because Ackles also used it as a workshop. They quietly made their way down the hill and hid behind the garage. Sterling peeked inside and saw a SUV parked alongside an old black Chevy whose engine was sitting on a block. It looked like Ackles was building the car from skin up. Sterling broke in but kept the light off as he fumbled around, looking for a phone. He swore softly when he didn’t find any.

“You check the other buildings,” Sterling said. “I’ll do the house.”

Sterling circumnavigated the sprawling log home in order to locate the phone line. He severed it as soon as he found it then circled once more to find the box housing the security system. He was unsuccessful.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself and waited behind the garage for Contadino to join him.

“Did you get everything?” Contadino asked.

“I got the phones but I couldn’t find the security line,” Sterling answered.

“Fuck,” Contadino said and looked at the house. “It’s buried then?”

“Makes sense. If the line runs outside the house, the security firm would have to come up here every other week to repair it because of wildlife.”

“What do you want to do?” Contadino asked.

Sterling had been asking that very same question through the entire drive and now that he was here, Sterling was at a loss. His indecision should’ve worried him but the assassin knew better. Sterling didn’t want Ackles to pay the price for being a good Samaritan. Not that he had any problems killing people who had been unfortunate enough to get in his way, but Ackles wasn’t some unknown quantity.

Sterling still remembered the stanza Ackles had scribbled on the title page:

> We saw not clearly nor understood,  
>  But, yielding ourselves to the master-hand,  
>  Each in his part as best he could,  
>  We played it through as the author planned.

  
The words were unfamiliar to Sterling, so he set out to find who wrote them. When he discovered it was by Alan Seeger, the former soldier was strangely touched. It moved Sterling to know that Ackles took pains to remember lines written by a poet long forgotten by modern times.

Sterling picked up a hand shovel from the floor and said, “Wait here. I’ll take care of it.”

He circled the house until he saw the two men in the den, talking. He only saw the Ackles’ head and shoulders but Padalecki was standing so Sterling got a good look at the athlete.

Sterling couldn’t believe how badly he’d missed.

With a cautious look over his shoulders Sterling stepped back until he was well out of reach from the strands of light cascading from the house. Then, with his usual accuracy, Sterling threw the tool through the window. He silently watched the men scatter in order not to get cut by the flying shards of glass.

Sterling shouted, “We want Padalecki! No one else needs to get hurt!” before swiftly returning to the garage.

Contadino was waiting for him, his face apoplectic. “Why the fuck did you talk to them?”

“Because I wanted to,” Sterling answered. “This is my job, Contadino, not yours. My ass is on the line, not yours, so why don’t you shut your trap and save us some grief?”

Contadino looked ready to revolt but at the last moment he whirled around and went inside the garage. Sterling didn’t follow. Instead, he waited outside, wondering what Ackles and Padalecki were going to do next.

* * *

  
Jared looked out into the storm. “Jesus, he tracked me here? In that?”

“He said ‘we’ so there’s more than the one shooter you saw.” Jensen tried the phone, not at all surprised to find it dead. “My car’s out in the garage. I’m guessing they’ve either disabled it or waiting for us to make a run for it.”

Jared closed his eyes and swayed a little on his feet. Jensen grabbed his hand and pulled him into a chair. Jensen knew theoretically it was possible that the killer could track down Jared to his house, but he didn’t believe it could really happen. However, now that his worst fear had been confirmed, the nebulous dread in the back of his brain had solidified into a dark, writhing mass.

For a moment, Jensen wondered if he could convince Jared to make a run for it.

As soon as that thought entered his mind, Jensen was flooded with shame. That he could even think of allowing Jared to go to his execution seemed like a mortal sin to him.

_Well, there goes my high horse_ , Jensen thought bleakly. Now he understood how the people he wrote about committed such inequities that would, in the end, condemn them in the eyes of future generations.

_So fucking easy to look the other way_ , Jensen concluded as he noticed Jared’s pale and trembling hands. _So fucking easy to say ‘I’m just one person, what could I do?’_

_Fuck that._

“You’re staying here,” Jensen said in a tone that told Jared there would be no further discussions on the matter. “We’re going to wait the bastards out. Look, Steve’s damn smart guy. He’s got imagination, and I know he’s going to find a way up here. And those assholes out there are going to freeze to death in less than an hour because the garage doesn’t have heating. So that’s all we have to do: wait for an hour. We can do that, right?”

Jared looked at Jensen with lose and frightened eyes. “You didn’t see what the bastard did in the store, Jensen.”

“No, I didn’t,” Jensen conceded. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what violence is. Look at me: I can’t walk and I sure as hell can’t run. If you go out there – do you really think they’ll let me live? After what you told me? No fucking way.

“Jared, they’ll just bar the doors and set this house on fire and burn me alive. That’s what they’ll do. And if I try to escape, they’ll just shoot me or slit my throat and toss my corpse back into the flames. Trust me, men like those ones out there? They don’t leave behind witnesses, any witnesses. So, you’re going to stay here and protect me because I’m up to my neck in it now, buddy. Just like you.”

That snapped Jared out of the fugue state he was in. His eyes widened in understanding and horror as he realized what kind of danger he put Jensen in.

“Sink or swim, Jared,” Jensen said firmly. “Sink or swim.”

“Okay,” Jared whispered. “Okay, so one hour?”

“One hour,” Jensen echoed.

“Do you have any guns?”

“Dude, I’m from Texas. Of course I’ve got guns.”

“Good, okay … are you any good ‘cause my aiming sucks.”

“I have a Super Blackhawk, Jared. You don’t need to have a good aim for that revolver: all you need to do is point and shoot.”

With that remark Jensen led Jared to his study. Jared took in the chaos and wondered how anyone could work in such a mess. Granted he wasn’t the neatest person in the world, but at least his floors were visible. Jensen took a key from under the mouse pad and unlocked the gun cabinet.

Jared’s eyes widened when he saw the arsenal. He’d never suspect that someone like Jensen would keep one gun, much less three and a rifle that looked like it could take down a buffalo.

“I go hunting,” Jensen explained.

“For what? Any animal that needs a rifle like that died out at the last Ice Age,” Jared cracked as he took the .44 Super Blackhawk Jensen gave him. “Where do you go hunting, exactly?”

Jensen’s reply was to hand over a box of bullets for his gun. He took a .9mm as it was most familiar to him and tucked in the third gun into the wheelchair’s side pocket. He then checked the rifle before loading it then said, “We should set up traps now."

“With what? You have bear traps under your bed?”

“No, I got something better,” Jensen said.

He opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a huge plastic jar of marbles. Jared saw a note taped on top of the lid that read,

> Replace your marbles as you lose them.
> 
> Love,  
>  Mac

  
“My sister’s idea of a Christmas gift,” Jensen explained. “Take a handful and place them in front of the windows. If they try to climb through we’ll know.”

“Sounds good. What about the doors?”

“Those are solid oak, and there’s steel plating reinforcing the locks. The guy will have to blast his way in if he tries them.”

“I don’t get it,” Jared said. “Why didn’t they come through yet? Why wait?”

“My guess is that they think the alarm system runs on a separate line.”

“Is it? Because if it is, then can we…”

Jensen sighed. “No, it isn’t. When they cut the phone line, they disabled the alarm system’s too. The sirens will still go off, but nobody but us will know. I meant to put in another line, I just never got around to it.”

“Shit,” Jared said.

“Yeah, but the bastards out there don’t know that and that’s what counts. Come on, we’re wasting time. You do upstairs, I’ll do this floor.”

Jared took less than five minutes to booby-trap all the windows on the second floor. Jensen went to the kitchen pantry where he kept a case of light bulbs. He wrapped a dishtowel around six bulbs, shattered them and then sprinkled the debris in front of the windows. He repeated the process until every window on ground level had a slim carpet of shattered glass in front of it.

Jared came downstairs and watched in admiration as Jensen set up the traps. He was astonished by how quickly the writer had the presence of mind to take control of the perilous circumstances and turn it to their advantage.

Then the two men took refuge in the study because it had one moderately sized window, which Jared managed to block with a filing cabinet. As they settled down Jensen noticed Jared’s panicky glances at the door and realized the athlete was being consumed by his fear. “You know, when this is all over you owe me a dinner and some kickass seats to the final game. I’m talking floor seating here.”

Jared’s smile was genuine enough for dimples to show. “Floor seats?” he echoed.

“Oh yeah, we’re talking right behind your team’s bench.”

“Why not the other team?”

“I might be tempted to knock them unconscious with water bottles so no, behind yours.”

“So you could pitch empty beer cups at my head? No thanks.”

“Why would I do that?”

Jared took a look at the barred window then the gun in his hand. “Because we’re doing a bang up job recreating _Assault on Precinct 13_?”

“Which version?”

“There are two?”

“Dude, Carpenter made the original in the 70’s. It’s awesome! Hell, it’s a classic compared to the one with Ethan Hawke.”

“Hey I like that one,” Jared argued. “It has Laurence Fishburne in it. That man’s a complete badass. And unlike Samuel Jackson, he doesn’t go around shouting the fact that he’s one bad motherfucker.”

“What’s with Ethan Hawke and snow, anyway?” Jensen asked, glad to have diverted Jared’s attention away from their dangerous predicament. “Every time a movie has some snowstorm or some bad weather related to snow, Ethan Hawke’s in it.”

“Maybe he just likes snow and wants to act in movies that have snow in it.”

“He starred in _Alive_.”

“I don’t remember seeing that one.”

“That’s probably because you were too young. It was about a group of athletes who survived a plane crash in the Andes. They avoid starving to death by cannibalizing the dead.

“You can’t tell me Ethan Hawke took a role in a movie like that because he has a thing for snowflakes.”

Jared looked at Jensen with humor dancing in his eyes. “Are you perving on Ethan Hawke? ‘Cause you had to have seen a lot of movies to know about the actor’s special connection to bad weather.”

“Shut up,” Jensen grumbled, blushing.

“You _are_ perving on Ethan Hawke!” Jared said. “What the hell, man? He looks like a weasel.”

“He does not.”

“You got it bad for an actor who looks like he’s seventeen when he doesn’t shave.”

“He’s a great actor,” Jensen countered. “And I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating cookies in it.”

Jared looked at his companion in complete shock, which resulted in Jensen suddenly fiddling with the gun in his hand.

“I guess this means you’re gay?” Jared asked after an uncomfortable moment of silence.

“Yeah, didn’t you see the sparkly purple gay pride float parked out front?”

“I must have missed it. What was I doing? Oh yeah, bleeding to death.”

“Excuses, excuses, excuses.”

“So … umm … where’s your boyfriend?” Jared asked.

Jensen was taken back by the question. “What makes you think I have one?”

“You’re a successful writer, you have your own place, you got a gigantic bed upstairs, and you got looks that should’ve landed you in front of GQ at least once a year, if not more often. I’m figuring unless the entire gay community’s suddenly gone brain dead, there’s a boyfriend in the picture somewhere.”

Jensen took a deep breath before answering. “I did have a boyfriend, and we were serious.” Jensen looked at the barred window. “It happened four years ago.”

Jared was already regretting he even asked the question. For the first time since he’s met Jensen, the writer seemed lost.

“He was practically raised in boats so nobody thought anything about him going out by himself. It was two days before he was reported missing. He was an editor for Portsmouth Herald and they didn’t expect him to come to work until Monday. I didn’t know about it because I was on a book tour overseas. I came home as soon as I heard but there was nothing I could do.

“The Coast Guards and half of Portsmouth went looking but they found nothing. He just went out one day and never came back.”

“I’m sorry,” Jared said in a small voice. He couldn’t imagine losing someone in such a manner. To never know what happened to a loved one must be hell.

“I waited for a year then bought this place. I waited another year before I built this house. I still have a website going – you know, so people have a head’s up if they find something while fishing or if they stumble across some debris on the beach. Anything, really.”

“Does anyone answer?”

“Yeah, a lot of people, actually. It helps that I’m a well-known author; people are very kind, especially with someone in my situation. But there’s been no solid proof as to why … why Dustin disappeared.”

It was obvious Jensen wasn’t ready to let go of his past and Jared was in no position to tell him otherwise. How could he when he had never loved anyone like Jensen? Look at Patrick and Sandy: what a royal fucking mess he made of those relationships. Sandy had drifted away and Patrick was dead.

_If I get out of this alive, I’ll clean up my act, I swear. No more fucking around, no more leading people on. Just let me live through tonight. No, let us live through tonight, Dear Lord._

Jared watched Jensen as he examined the outside through a sliver of window left uncovered by the cabinet. His eyes alert, his crippled body tense and ready for a fight. Jared couldn’t figure out what Jensen could do since he was trapped in a wheelchair, but Jared saw the obvious strength in those broad shoulders and muscular arms. He also suspected that though Jensen couldn’t outrun Patrick’s killer, if he got his hands around the man’s throat, the fight could go either way.

Jared’s attention drifted from Jensen’s rough hands back to his face. The difference between Jensen’s classically beautiful features and his physique was incongruous. And yet, instead of being disconcerting, this dichotomy made Jensen more attractive in Jared’s opinion. It was also obvious to him Jensen was quite capable of handling his side of any conversation and was probably more entertaining than ninety percent of people Jared was forced to call friends.

“What restaurant do you want me to take you?” Jared asked. The idea of taking Jensen out to dinner suddenly seemed extremely desirable. To his chagrin, Jared had discovered his libido couldn’t be denied even when facing painful death. And there was also the hope that by planning to do something in the future, he’d get a chance to actually do it.

“I don’t know: one of those nice ones on Charles Street, maybe?”

“No fucking way. Those places are so damn small the maître d' would have to use a crowbar to fit me through the front door. And they charge outrageous prices, not to mention the portions could starve a rat.”

“I see you never went to Lala Rokh.”

“I also like to eat in a restaurant whose name I could pronounce without looking like an idiot,” Jared deadpanned.

“Hey, you might be footing the bill but I get to choose, and I’m sure you could afford Lala Rokh.”

“You’re one of those types who like eat small portions and talk about world politics for like five hours, aren’t you?”

“I’m game to talk about any subject,” Jensen replied airily. “It’s one of the perks of being a writer.”

“Well, we can discuss it over a large pizza.”

“How about Baraka Café?”

“How about Oishii?”

“Done!”

Jared almost laughed at how eagerly Jensen replied to his offer. “Man, you really are a chow hound, aren’t you?”

Jensen shrugged and grinned. “My mama taught me to never turn down good food, especially free food.”

Jared looked at the gun in his hand. “So, what’s the story with this? Because this isn’t just big: it’s outright terrifying.”

“My dad gave it to me as a birthday present, couple of weeks after I told my parents I was gay.”

“He bought you a gun? Is that a normal reaction?”

“Probably not, but then he didn’t disown me so I wasn’t about to complain,” Jensen took a glance at the Super Blackhawk. “I think he bought it on a recommendation from a friend of his … one of few who kept in touch after my parents talked about me and my sexual orientation.

“I found out later from my sister that they left their church. They knew the people there would make it hell for me when they heard about my coming out. That was when I knew they still loved me. I called my dad and he told me it was mom who decided they should leave. They later joined another church and met new people. It must have been hard for them. They kept some friends from the old church but most of the congregation didn’t bother to keep up with my parents once they found out about me.”

“Your parents sound cool.”

“They are. They don’t throw parties or invite the entire neighborhood over for a BBQ, but they have few good friends and each other, and that’s what counts for them.”

“I bet they’re proud that you’re a writer.”

“Yeah, my dad was so excited when I came to Dallas for a book signing event. I swear, he must have dragged everyone he knew to Borders. I think he was afraid nobody was going to show up.”

Jared’s retort died on his lips. Both he and Jensen heard the telltale crunching sound from the kitchen. Jared moved first and navigated quickly down the hallway to the kitchen where he caught a man fumbling around the center island. However, it was Jensen who shot first.

“Fuck!” the intruder cried out.

That motivated Jared to shoot his gun. His shot went wide but it was enough of an incentive for the stranger to scramble back through the open window. Jared approached it sideways and slammed it shut. He closed the latch again and crouched low while returning to Jensen’s side.

“One hour,” Jensen whispered to Jared, his right hand stroking soothing lines on Jared’s back. “One hour.”

“Okay,” Jared whispers and suddenly grabbed Jensen’s hand. “We can do that.”

* * *

  
Sterling saw Contadino dash through the yard and was tempted for a moment to shoot the bastard himself. He refrained from killing him, though. Not that Sterling had any plans for the idiot to live through the night, but he needed Contadino alive, if only to play target practice for the men inside the house.

“I see that went well,” Sterling commented acidly.

“The son of a bitch shot me!”

“Ackles lives in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by wildlife. Odds are good he hunts. So, either he’s a bad shot or you’re one lucky son of a bitch.”

“Padalecki also got a gun.” Contadino took a look at the bleeding wound on his thigh. “Jesus, that hurts.”

“Pack some snow on it. It’ll help stop the bleeding and dull the pain.”

Contadino gave a jerky nod and did as told. He dared not look at Sterling in fear of seeing how pissed the man really was.

“So you’re going to listen to me now?” Sterling asked.

“Yeah,” Contadino answered, his voice thin with pain and anger. _Like I’m going to follow orders from a fucking nigger. When this is over, I’m going to cut you to little pieces and feed you to the fucking swans in the Garden._

“So the house is booby trapped. I should’ve expected it.”

“Why?”

“Ackles is a writer. For his first book he interviewed nearly one hundred Marines who fought in Vietnam. The main character in the novel was a highly decorated officer who was with 1st Force Reconnaissance in the war. I’m sure Ackles learned a great deal listening to him.”

“Why don’t we just burn the fuckers out?”

“Because Ackles has a security system. We try burning his house, it’ll alert the fire department not to mention the police.”

“So what? By the time they get here, we’ll be long gone.”

“You really are stupid as you look. Tell me, how will they get here?”

Contadino looked at Sterling with confusion. “The same way we did.”

“That’s right. They’ll take the same road, the road that we cleared in order to come up here. And the same _fucking_ road we need in order to come down the goddamn mountain. You get it now?”

Contadino’s shoulders slumped. “Shit.”

“That’s why the first thing I did was kill the phone lines. That way he can’t call out and anyone who tries calling in will blame the weather for not being able to get through.”

“But with this snowstorm … will they really try to get up here?”

Sterling closed his eyes and counted to ten in order not to put his fist down Contadino’s throat then yank out his spine and use it as a rope to lynch him on the nearest tree.

“Listen to me,” Sterling was careful to enunciate each word, “Ackles is probably Wallingford’s only claim to fame. He’s their one bona-fide celebrity and they’re not going to sit around holding their junk in their hands while his house is on fire.

“They’ll come, Contadino, and they’ll come in force. This weather might be a nightmare for us, but for them this is business as usual. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“So what do you want to do? We can’t burn the fuckers out and they shoot back!”

“They’re playing the waiting game, which means they think we’ll freeze out here. We’ll wait just long enough for them to relax. Then we go in, and this time we’ll do it without alerting them. And we shoot them both. Got that?”

“Jesus Christ, my dick’s about to fall off!”

“Shut the hell up,” Sterling said. “And if your dick falls off because it’s cold, it’s not a dick: it’s a pussy.”

Contadino’s tone was overly cautious as he asked, “Why didn’t Ackles trigger the alarm? I mean he could’ve set it off himself, couldn’t he?”

Sterling smiled. It would have been almost beautiful if it weren’t so ferocious. “Two reasons: one, because he’s afraid of what we’ll do to anyone who tries to help them. Ackles doesn’t know what kind of ammunition we got but I’m sure Padalecki told him what I’m capable of. Second, for some reason or another he can’t. Either way, they’re dead men in less than sixty minutes.”

* * *

  
Chris shook his head. “I still can’t get to Jensen.”

Steve dug through his desk, getting more and more frustrated by the second. “I know I have his goddamn satellite number somewhere!”

“We have a problem,” Martin Lane said as he hung up the phone on Linklater’s office. He was one of three men who were able to answer the department’s call for help and later had witnessed the destruction of Connor’s place.

“What is it?”

“It’s Earl’s wife, Jenna. She said he was suppose to swing by over an hour ago to take his medication and he hasn’t.”

“She does realize we have a major snowstorm, right?” Steve asked. After Nathan’s disappearance and possible murder, the last thing he needed to handle was Mrs. Hansford’s fussiness.

“I had a conversation with Adam Jameson forty minutes ago,” Martin said. “Their road hasn’t been plowed yet and they live on Hyacinth Street.”

“That’s where the schools are,” Martin’s brother, David, said. “Now I know that road’s kept clear.”

“Who’s suppose to be plowing that one?” Chris asked.

“Seb Mason,” David answered.

“Where’s Isaiah suppose to be?” Steve asked.

“Northwest sector,” Martin answered and drew a circle on the wall map with his finger.

Steve studied the map for a moment. “Sharon, call Abigail Mallory. She lives on Main.”

Sharon did; the conversation was brief. “She said Isaiah came by two hours ago. She hasn’t seen him since.”

“Shit,” Chris said savagely. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“The son of a bitch somehow got the plows,” Steve said, his voice hollowed by shock. “How the fuck did he do that?”

Sharon stood up from the dispatch desk. “If he got to one of them, he could’ve forced them to lie and ask for help. The others would’ve immediately responded.”

“How? Don’t they use cell phones?” Chris asked.

Sharon shook her head. “No, they have walkie-talkies. Isaiah said they’re lot more dependable in bad weather.”

“Sweet Jesus,” David said. “You don’t think they’re dead, do you?”

“Fuck,” Steve said. “Okay, we have to find the plows now.”

Chris stood next to Steve and looked at the map. “If Mrs. Hansford said her husband was suppose to take the medicine then we can assume he was on his way back when he was taken.”

“Why do you say that?” Martin asked.

“Because they all disappeared roughly in the last half hour,” Steve answered.

“So, unless the snowplows were driven into the woods, we can assume they’re somewhere near Hansford’s house.”

“Why does the bastard want the plows in the first place?” David asked. “That’s what I don’t get.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed into slits, changing his friendly face into something reptilian. “He needs it to get to Jensen.”

Chris dove for the phone and called again only to get the same voice recording explaining there was a problem with connecting that particular number.

“We find the plows now,” Steve barked out. “David, Martin, bring your own trucks and follow me.”

It was as Chris predicted. The men found the plows only quarter mile away from Hansford’s place. Martin checked the unconscious men and announced with great relief that they were all alive. Steve ordered the Lane brothers to load the men in their trucks and drive them to the nearest hospital while he and Chris went after the killer.

There was no doubt in either Chris or Steve’s mind as to where the killer was heading. The only question was if they could reach Jensen in time. The two men piled into Steve’s cruiser and drove as quickly as they could to Oberon Pass.

It took them forty minutes to reach the treacherous passageway. Steve took one look at the cleared road and snarled in frustration.

“I should’ve seen this coming,” he shouted to himself. “Why the fuck did I not see this?”

“Shut the hell up,” Chris said. “You’re not going to do Jensen any good by losing it.”

Steve drove five miles further before stopping.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Chris asked as he watched Steve get out of the cruiser and open the trunk.

“I know a shortcut to Jensen’s house,” Steve explained as he pulled out two pairs of snowshoes. “It’ll be faster if we go on foot.”

“Are you fucking nuts?”

“Listen to me, the son of a bitch has at least thirty minute head start. We can’t catch up to him by taking the goddamn car. The road’s too dangerous. Trust me on this.”

Chris closed his eyes and moaned before yanking himself out of the warmth of the car. He put on the snowshoes and then pulled out a medium-sized case from the trunk. It contained a rifle, which he swiftly assembled. Chris then wrapped a tarp around it in order to keep out moisture.

Steve started up the cruiser and parked it in such a way that it blocked the road completely. He popped open the hood, pulled out the sparkplugs and pocketed them. “Just in case,” he explained as Chris looked at him in puzzlement. “If the bastard comes down first he’s gonna have to go through the car. Odds are good that if he tries such a stunt, he’ll go off to the side. If he manages to come down on foot, he’s still going to have to hoof it down the rest of the mountain.

“Hopefully the fucker will freeze to death before he hits Wallingford.”

“Man, you are one vindictive son of a bitch, you know that?”

“He killed Nathan. Vindictive doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Steve said calmly. “When I see that bastard we’re going to have a little heart-to-heart about Nathan.”

Chris’ smile was wolfish. “See, I knew you weren’t cut out to be John Law.”

“Fuck off.”

* * *

  
**Boston, Massachusetts**

Singer was jerked awake from deep sleep by the ringing phone. He looked at the alarm clock and swore when he saw it was past midnight. His wife picked up the cordless and prodded him with it.

“Singer.”

“Sir, it’s Robertson. I just got a call from our office in New Hampshire. You have Patrick Connor from Wallingford in your list?”

“What is it?” Singer felt his heart race as he put on his glasses.

“Sir, I just got a call that the police department in Wallingford’s on a warpath. One of their deputies went missing and they think he’s been murdered along with three others. One is a kid named Evan Laramie and the second is a Patrick Marcus Connor from Wallingford. His father, Lawrence James Connor is also presumed dead.”

“What the hell happened up there?”

“I'm not quite sure, Sir. As far as we can tell this all went down about three hours ago.”

“And why the fuck am I hearing about it now?”

“Agent Henman went for a dinner break and didn’t get back until nine. It took him a while to process the info.”

“I want Agent Murray and Agent Lindberg. Just call Lindberg: he’ll contact Murray. Call Nelson, he should be back from his vacation. I also want them heavily armed, ready for extreme emergencies. Got that?”

“Yes, sir, anything else?”

“Contact Kripke in DC. He’ll want to know this ASAP.”

“Yes, Sir. There’s also something else. From what I understand a police sergeant and a friend of his have mounted a rescue operation of sorts.”

“Why?”

“The report says that the sergeant believes the killer is going after someone named Padalecki who actually saw the shooter of Patrick Connor and Evan Laramie.”

“Did you say Padalecki?” Singer echoed weakly.

“Yes, Sir, I did.”

“Where is the witness, exactly?”

“He’s currently holed up with a man named Jensen Ackles somewhere in the White Mountains. I’m not sure exactly where.”

“Jesus Christ,” Singer said as he grabbed his cell. “Okay, I also want whoever is available in Bedford and Portsmouth at Wallingford before I get there. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll relay that information right now. And just so you know, the entire area is hit with a blizzard so the roads are very treacherous right now, especially through the White Mountains.”

“Just get my men ready.”

Singer pulled out the warmest clothes he had before collecting his personal firearm from his office along with the Bureau-issued gun.

He was scrambling to find his thickest winter coat when he saw his wife standing calmly next to the garage door with the coat in hand and an enormous thermos of coffee in the other.

“I love you,” Amy said. “Go get ‘em, cowboy.”

Singer felt her kiss on his lips during the entire drive from their home in Brookline to Boston. He stormed into the office and saw Lindberg and Murray, both nursing coffee from the break room.

“Nelson’s downstairs, getting the car prepped,” Lindberg said.

“What’s happened?” Murray asked, blinking sleep out of his eyes.

“Patrick Connor, his father, and two other people are dead or presumed dead. And whoever killed them is now after Padalecki.”

“What?” Lindberg hissed, his gaze swiveling to Murray who retained his calm demeanor.

“I’m still reeling from the news myself,” Singer said.

“So I guess this means Lorino knows,” Murray said, “which also means whoever he hired to take care of this mess is crème de la crème.”

“Sir, we should look in on Russo, just in case,” Lindberg said, troubled by what Murray had revealed.

“I was just thinking that too. If what I’m thinking is correct, Lorino’s doing a sweep and that means none of his crew up here are safe.”

“I wonder if Ben knows that,” Murray said. “He’s got to know about the cleanup, but I’m betting the guy hasn’t got a goddamn clue how disposable he is.”

“Why do you say that?” Singer asked.

Murray shrugged. “It’s just that Manzoni bragged a lot, and most of the time it was to make himself look better. I got the feeling he was doing it because he wasn’t getting stroked by the right people.”

“And Barassi?”

“He’s definitely smarter and doesn’t need any handholding from New York. If I had to make a guess Barassi’s already gone underground. Manzoni, on the other hand, isn’t smart enough to do that.”

“Why don’t we put an extra car on Manzoni, for now?” Lindberg suggested. “Just in case something falls out of that tree.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Murray said.

“Agreed,” Singer called in for a second car to baby-sit Manzoni. Then he contacted the men responsible for keeping track of Barassi. The conversation was brief but illuminating.

“Johnny boy took his wife and kids and went on a trip to the Bahamas not two hours ago,” Singer said.

Murray smiled a little. “He always was a skittish kind of guy.”

“Do you know where?” Lindberg asked.

“Yeah, he’s got a little place on Cat Island. But Lorino knows that too, so I doubt Johnny is going to hide there. He’s probably on his boat and knowing Johnny, he’s going to stay there until the shitstorm’s cleared.”

“Sir,” Lindberg asked. “I was wondering, did Patrick Connor get the information you needed?”

Singer shook his head. “No, and that’s what’s killing me. I know he had three meetings set up with Russo the last two weeks but they were a bust. I was starting to get worried that Russo was onto Connor.”

“Somebody was,” Murray said. “And that means there’s a leak.”

Singer looked pained at his agent’s statement. “I was thinking that too. The question is from where?”

His office phone rang shrilly, interrupting their discussion. Singer answered, his voice clipped with strain.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

Singer hung up and then collapsed onto his chair.

“What’s wrong?”

“The men who were tailing Russo lost him late this afternoon. They just got back to his house: it’s been torched.”

“What?” Lindberg whispered.

“What about his family?” Murray asked. “He’s got two kids.”

“The cops said the firefighters didn’t find anyone inside,” Singer replied. “All right, we’ll let the locals deal with this mess for now. We’ve got to head out to Wallingford before they also take care of Padalecki.”

Lindberg was in the back with Murray as Singer took the passenger seat next to Nelson who had a reputation for his driving skills in New England winters. Lindberg studied his friend’s tense face and asked, “What’s up?”

“I was just thinking I’m not in a good position either,” Murray said. “They must be pissing bricks about me.”

“Lorino knows better than to go after the FBI,” Lindberg said in a reasonable tone. “The last thing he wants to start is a war with the feds. He’s already got one waging with New York City Police Department and look how that’s turning out.”

“That wasn’t him, actually,” Murray said. “It was his fucked up son, Alex, who gave the okay to kill the detectives.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah, as far as I can figure Tomas Lorino is old school, but his son – his son’s a different animal altogether. I hate to say it but when the old man dies, which is any day now, it’s going to get really bad for everyone, including us. Alex’s a cowboy, and cowboys don’t think about repercussions.”

“If that's the situation, will Tomas allow his son to take his place?” Lindberg asked. “If Alex’s such a risk, then Tomas must have someone else in mind as his successor.”

Murray looked at Lindberg and raised a questioning brow. “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question.”

“Wonder if Alex knows it too.”

Murray shrugged. “He can’t touch the old man. Tomas is too smart for that.”

“And Alex isn’t as popular as he thinks he is,” Singer chimed in. “Like Murray said, the kid’s a cowboy and cowboys aren’t very popular in that crowd, young or old.”

“So there’s going to be a power struggle when Tomas kicks the bucket?” Lindberg asked.

Singer turned around and gave Murray a questioning stare. Murray shrugged again, looking bored. “Depends if Tomas doesn’t have someone lined up already. It could be his son or someone else; I’m betting on someone else.”

“And if that happens, you can be sure Alex Lorino will put up a fight,” Singer said, “which is good for us. Every time they go through this kind of civil war, we end up benefiting big time.”

“Will Tomas Lorino allow that?” Lindberg asked. “I can’t imagine someone like him would allow it to spin out of control, even in his death bed.”

“That’s what we’re thinking,” Singer asked. “Which is why this Russo mess is important. It came at a critical time for all involved, including Tomas and his Consiglieri.”

Murray looked at Singer with admiration. “You’re right. If this goes to hell then Tomas Lorino’s reputation is going to take a hit. And that’s the last thing the old man needs.”

Lindberg sat back and gave a huge sigh. “I’m wondering: if cleaning up this Russo mess is so important, would Tomas Lorino send just one man to do the work? Wouldn’t he send an entire squad just to make sure?”

“Not really,” Murray answered. “Not if he trusts the man he sent to do the work.”

“That’s the other thing,” Singer said. “If, by sheer luck, we catch this guy; I can promise you he’s got enough info to bring down the entire Lorino Family. Tomas Lorino wouldn’t trust a total stranger to do this kind of work, no matter how simple it is. He would’ve tapped someone he knew, someone he trusted. And that means the killer had carried out hits for Tomas before, not just successfully, mind you, but _perfectly_.

“If we catch a man like that…”

“It’ll be the arrest of a lifetime,” Lindberg finished.

“All our lifetimes,” Singer corrected. “Just remember that before you go charging in.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Carver's Rest, New Hampshire**

As hard as Jared tried he never once caught Jensen looking at him with curiosity. In fact, the guy was doing a damn good job of ignoring him altogether. But Jared wasn't worried about Jensen's behavior since he knew the cause of Jensen’s lack of attention wasn’t anger or frustration; it was because he was completely preoccupied with whatever was brewing inside that head of his.

Jared studied Jensen's profile and mentally kicked himself for wondering why Jensen hadn't questioned him about his so-called friendship with Patrick. In all likelihood Jensen had already guessed correctly about the nature of the 'friendship'. After all the man wasn’t suffering for lack of imagination.

“I want you to know,” Jared started hesitantly, “Patrick and I are … were more than friends.”

Jensen's eyes shone with sympathy, not surprise. “I’m sorry, it must be hard.”

Jared sighed; part of him wanted Jensen to believe the lie if only to continue being in his good graces. “Not really. The truth is I was planning to break up with him when I saw him tonight. He was threatened by my lifestyle and I can't say he was wrong about his fears. When we first started I told him the press wouldn't be a problem. I was wrong. You can imagine how much harder it is to have a normal relationship when your every move is scrutinized by the media.”

“He was scared his father would find out, wasn’t he?”

Jared nodded. “Yeah, he told me about his family situation. Didn’t sound pretty.” Jared looked at Jensen with anguish. “I tried to get him to leave; I even offered to loan him whatever he needed to start his own business, but he wouldn't hear it. Patrick kept telling me it would kill his father if he left.”

“Patrick was all Larry had. His wife died giving birth to him and the old man wasn't above using that fact to make sure his son would take care of him as he got older.”

“How about his uncle?”

“There aren't enough words in the English language to describe how fucked up that man is. Larry was about the only human being Jimmy would tolerate and even then things were rocky. One minute they would be sharing beers and the next Larry was pointing his rifle at his brother, threatening to blow off Jimmy's head.”

“Does Patrick have any other relatives?”

“He’s got a cousin doing time, another who’s an addict, and the last one I think is over in Iraq. I’d like to say the last one’s a good egg but from what I’ve heard giving that man a firearm practically proved how desperate the Army really is.”

“Jesus,” Jared whispered, “Patrick must’ve been in hell growing up in that household.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t keep in touch with any of them and I can’t blame him. Steve told me the one in prison is hardcore white supremacist. He went in eight years ago for armed robbery. His sentence got extended for another ten years because he was found guilty of killing another inmate. Steve’s guessing the guy’s never going to see outside the fence.”

“And the addict?”

“Her name’s Emily. She’s lives Tacoma, I think. Been to rehab four times already. Meth did a real number on her. The last I heard she fell off the wagon and got busted for solicitation.”

“You mean prostitution.”

“Something like that.”

“How old is she?”

“Maybe twenty? I know she’s younger than Patrick by few years.”

“How the hell did Patrick come out of that cesspool of genetics without spending time in an institution?”

Jensen shrugged. “I’ve been told his mom was something of a saint. His father wasn’t always a bastard either. There was a time when Larry was pretty much the go-to guy if anyone in Wallingford was in trouble. Then his wife died and he sank into the bottle. His fall from grace was pretty much guaranteed after that.”

“I wish Patrick took my offer,” Jared said, “and gotten the hell away from here.”

“I was wondering – how did you meet him?” Jensen asked.

“He came recommended by a teammate who had some work done by him.”

“That sounds about right,” Jensen said. “Some of their pieces should be in museums.”

“Patrick told me a desk his father made _is_ in a museum,” Jared said. “He was so damn proud of that, couldn’t stop beaming when he showed me the picture online.”

“What piece?”

“A writing desk,” Jared answered. “Or what Patrick called 'a modern interpretation of the classical colonial escritoire'.”

Jensen’s smile was genuine if also brief. “That’s Larry for you. The guy could be drunk off his ass but he could still outshine most of his competition.”

Jared looked at the gun in his hands and quietly said, “We don’t have an hour, do we?”

Jensen’s face became clouded with tension and worry. “No, not really.”

“What were you planning, then?”

“You’re not going to like it,” Jensen warned his companion. “It goes against everything you’ve been taught.”

“You just met me,” Jared said harshly. “You cannot possibly know what my priorities are.”

“Maybe, but I’m pretty good at judging character.” Jensen sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I was going to wait until the last minute and just railroad you into doing what needs to be done.”

“And that is?”

“The men out there need to make sure you’re dead. And that means they’re going to come inside the house. I was planning to take them out when they did.”

“How? Set another booby trap?”

“In a way: I was going to blow up the house,” Jensen said tersely.

“Wait a fucking minute,” Jared said. “Blow up _your_ house?”

“With them in it,” Jensen said. “That’s the only way to be sure we’re going to live through this.”

“Jesus Christ, this is your home!”

“I know that,” Jensen snapped. “But having a nice house isn't going to mean diddly shit to me if I'm a corpse.

"Jared, listen to me. I can’t run, I sure as fuck can’t hide for long. If we don’t kill them – they will kill me if not both of us.”

Jared’s open mouth snapped closed.

Jensen reached out and placed his right hand over Jared's heart. “I don’t want to die, Jared. Not here, not like this - gunned down in my own home like an animal. I want to live, I want to finish writing my third book; it’s my best yet, you know? Help me, please.”

Jared took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said hoarsely. “Okay, what do you have in mind?”

“The storm’s almost done,” Jensen said, “it won’t be long before they’ll come in. I’m guessing they’ll use a window on the second floor. They’ll know to avoid the marbles but I have wood flooring throughout the place. They're bound to make some noise and I'm confident I'll be able to hear it. And when I do we get the fuck out of the house before blowing them to kingdom come.”

“You have dynamite?” Jared asked, wondering what other type of arsenal the writer had squirreled away.

“No, but the stove uses gas and I also have few jars of lamp oil in the mudroom.”

“What do you want to do?”

“We have to time it carefully but…”

* * *

  
Sterling went through the window first, noticing the marbles scattered in front of him. He quirked a smile and scuttled sideways, avoiding the trap. Contadino followed quietly, his face a sullen mask of impatience and wounded pride.

Sterling made his way down the hall with painstaking slowness, hoping his caution was paying off. Contadino was right behind him, light-footed even though his boots were made for construction work. Sterling took a quick peek over the second floor landing and saw no one. It was then a familiar scent hit him. Sandalwood mixed with something floral. Sterling only noticed it because it was in complete contrast to the austere and masculine décor. He slowly made his way down the stairs, frowning as he couldn't figure out why a simple fragrance troubled him.

Sterling paused at the bottom of the steps, looking both ways down the main hallway and noted the unnatural silence.

 _Something’s wrong,_ Sterling thought even as he turned left and made his way to the back of the house. _I should be hearing them by now._

He slowly peeked into the first room he came across and identified it as the study. He knew the room had been occupied very recently. The two chairs felt warm to his touch and he could still smell blood from Padalecki's wound. Sterling took another sniff: the sandalwood scent was definitely stronger in this part of the house. Forcing himself to snap out of his obsession with the perfume, Sterling continued his sweep with Contadino making slight dragging noises with his boots on the worn carpet.

 _I'm not just going to shoot him_ , Sterling thought grimly. _I'm going to saw off his fucking head and mail it to his mob buddies._

The two men made it to the end of the hall and turned right to find the kitchen unlit and unoccupied. Sterling nearly gagged and was forced to take a step back as the perfume all but overwhelmed him. Suddenly, flames roared into the kitchen from a doorway in the back.

It was then Sterling smelled gas underneath the overpowering stench of sandalwood. “Run!”

The two men sprinted down the hallway towards the front. The first explosion lifted them before slamming them to the floor. Sterling covered his head as a jet of flames shot overhead. That was followed by a deafening whooshing noise which signaled to Sterling the fire was being sucked back to the kitchen. He leaped to the door, slammed it open and bolted outside with Contadino following at his heels.

The second blast was great deal more powerful, partially fueled by the sudden introduction of air from outside. It blew out every window on the first floor, throwing the two men off the porch and into the snow.

“Jesus!” Contadino shouted as he struggled to stand up. “What the fuck was that!”

The first shot tore through Contadino, spinning him around 180 degrees. Sterling rolled away from the wounded man, taking refuge in a snow bank ten feet away. However, he knew he couldn’t stay long. There were explosions going inside Ackles' home and he knew he had to get away before the house destroyed itself completely, taking him with it in a wall of flames. But, as soon as he tried to move he was covered by gunfire.

“Son of a bitch,” Sterling hissed. He didn’t know who had him pinned, but if he had to take a guess it was probably Ackles. And that meant either Padalecki was going to flank them or had taken off to get help. Luckily, Contadino had disabled Ackles’ truck before the storm abated so Sterling had little doubt he would be able to catch up to Padalecki no matter how big a head start the athlete had on him.

Suddenly Sterling heard a burst of noise and turned to witness Contadino running off into the woods, crazily dodging a hail of gunfire raining on his lanky frame. Finally seeing his chance, Sterling bolted to the back of the house. He was mindful, though, of the fact that Padalecki was still out there somewhere.

There was a sharp crack which froze Sterling. It was from Contadino's gun. Then he heard Contadino scream, “Take that, motherfucker!”

Before Sterling could figure out where Contadino was located, there was another gunfire. That wasn’t familiar, which meant Padalecki had come to the writer's aid.

Sterling circumvented the open space around the burning house and quietly approached the spot where he believed the gunfire originated. He heard Contadino screaming for him and a rush of running footsteps through the blanket of snow. Sterling also heard a bigger man, probably Padalecki, chasing after Contadino.

_With some luck, Padalecki will kill him. I can’t afford to use up my bullets on the bastard._

It was the glint of metal that caught Sterling’s attention. Ackles was flat on his back, his eyes filmy slits, his chest working out flutters of small, panicky breaths. Sterling scanned the surrounding woods before finally approaching the injured man. As he suspected, it was the writer who was shooting the rifle. Sterling kicked it away before examining Ackles who had slipped into unconsciousness.

The man was bleeding profusely from a chest wound. Sterling had seen these types of injuries before and none of the men survived, even after medical intervention. For a moment he considered finishing off the writer if only to save the man from a world of agony and humiliation. Sterling pointed his gun but couldn’t pull the trigger.

Something in him coiled tightly, leaving him breathless until he was forced to lower his gun. Then he heard multiple shots.

 _Calvary is here_ , he thought and looked down at Ackles. Without thinking too much he ran in the direction where the car and the plow were parked. He knew better than to think he could make a full getaway with the truck. He planned to drive down Oberon Pass and ditch the car before reaching Wallingford. After that, he would trek to Contadino’s Acura hidden a mile down the road from the store where everything went to shit. He would call Manners when he hit Massachusetts and tell him how everything went upside down.

Sterling couldn’t figure out exactly the reason for his inability to shoot Ackles but his hesitation was more than enough of a warning sign that his tolerance for his profession was quickly coming to an end. However, unlike eight years ago, he had more than enough money to retire.

 _I hope Manners has something good for my retirement package. Fuck it: I don’t care where I end up, as long as there isn’t fucking snow to deal with_ , Sterling thought as he slowly navigated the truck away from the woods and onto Oberon Pass. _Somewhere warm, tropical even._

* * *

  
Jared saw Jensen tense up and was about to ask when Jensen shook his head. Instead, the writer gave a nod and a thumb’s up signal. Jared didn’t hesitate. He lifted Jensen off the wheelchair and quietly opened the back door, doubly glad that Jensen had oiled its hinges only minutes ago. He put Jensen down on the steps and the two men waited.

Jared heard another, nearly quiet scuttling sound originating from somewhere inside the house. He looked at Jensen with wide eyes.

“I thought I heard something earlier,” Jensen whispered. “We have to wait until they come closer.”

As if replying to Jensen's statement more whispery noises drifted down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Closer,” Jensen murmured, “Just a little more.”

Jared tensed his body, ready for a maniacal dash while carrying Jensen. Though his wounded arm was aching, the adrenaline was back and Jared was quickly becoming swamped under it.

“Now,” Jensen whispered and lit a book of matches. He threw it on the trail of lamp oil Jared had drizzled on the wooden floor, starting from the back door and leading to the kitchen where the oven and burners were slowly leaking gas.

Jared picked him up and started running, his muscles systematically switching themselves on as if he were in another basketball game. Legs pumping, lungs expanding, Jared barely felt Jensen’s weight as they reached the hiding spot Jensen told him about.

Jared put down his companion behind a large snow bank and took the Super Blackhawk from Jensen. The first explosion shocked him hard enough to make him lose his focus.

“Jared, cover the back door!” Jensen said as he lifted up his rifle and nestled it in his embrace.

Jared nodded and was halfway around the house when two men ran through the front door with the second explosion following right behind. Jared realized he was out in the open and sprinted into the woods with Jensen putting down cover fire to help him. Jared ran behind a large tree and took a quick peek to see if he was being followed. What he saw was one of the killers dart from cover and make a mad dash to where Jensen was located.

Jared scrambled from his position and started running back to Jensen, heedless of the second shooter still in hiding. He heard the first gunman scream obscenities before a single shot was fired. Within moments Jared came upon a horrific scene: Jensen was sprawled on the ground with the gunman standing over him.

Without thinking Jared rapidly fired his gun at the assassin. Only one shot did any damage and it only grazed the son of a bitch, but the wound was more than enough of an encouragement for the man to take off.

“You bastard! Do something! I’m hit!” the stranger screamed into the cold night air.

There was no answer of any kind, only the relentless silence peppered with the sounds of flames consuming Jensen's beautiful home.

Jared looked down at Jensen and saw blood rapidly dampen his green ski jacket. It was then he realized the bullet hole was located right over where Jensen’s heart should be. Jared heard the shooter yelling for help again.

 _I can’t think with the bastard screaming like that, and I have to if I want to help Jensen_ , Jared thought numbly, then winced when he heard the cry for help rise into a hysterical falsetto. _I’m going to have to shut the fucker up._

A strained hissing noise snapped Jared's attention away from the killers and back to Jensen. Jared thought he actually saw the writer take his last breath before stilling completely. He wanted to lean down and give CPR but the shouting kept him from moving. Suddenly, there was silence. Now he could finally think it was too late to help the man who had the heart and the ingenuity to protect him when Jared's own courage failed. Jared tightened his grip on the gun as he continued to stare at Jensen's corpse.

_They’re not getting off this mountain. They’re never going to get a chance to see a jury of their peers. No court, no lawyers, nobody. No chance for parole, ever._

Jared tore after the screaming man, and with his speed it wasn’t long before he caught up to the bleeding figure.

“What the…” the stranger turned to him, his gun arm rising. But the killer never got off a shot. Three loud popping noises echoed into the night. Suddenly, the assassin leaped into the air backwards, as if slammed by an invisible fist, while half of his skull disintegrated into a sodden mess of red and white.

Jared whirled to his right and spotted two men, one in police uniform, the other a civilian whose rifle was still aimed at where the killer had stood only a second before. As soon as Jared was able to identify the men as rescuers he felt all sensation leave his body and he collapsed onto his knees.

“Easy there, Mr. Padalecki,” the officer said as he made a cursory examination of Jared. “My name’s Steve, that’s Chris. We’re here to help.”

“Where’s Jensen?” Chris asked.

Jared moaned, the sound originating somewhere around his gut, growing louder as it traveled upwards, bringing bile and pain with it.

“Jesus, tell us where he is!” Chris pleaded.

“He’s back at the house. Be careful, there’s a second shooter,” Jared replied, not making eye contact with either man.

Chris cocked his head and said, “Do you hear that?”

The sound of a car's engine being revved bounced off the trees.

“Son of a bitch,” Steve said. “Okay, let’s go.”

Jared stood up and trudged forward, his steps becoming slower as they got closer to Jensen’s body. It was Chris who saw it first.

“Fuck no,” he said before bolting forward, squatting next to Jensen. He checked for a pulse. “I got it!”

“What?” Jared whispered, frozen mid-step. “He’s alive?”

Steve opened Jensen’s jacket and tore open the flannel sweatshirt and long johns. He made a quick examination of the wound with a flashlight. “Don’t move him. We need medical help, now.” He took off his own jacket, slashed a large piece of lining and used it to cover the gaping wound. It wasn't long before the blood started seeping through. Steve extracted stuffing from his coat, rolled it into a tight ball before using it to cover the already blood-sodden fabric.

Chris pulled out the satellite phone from his coat pocket. “This is Chris Kane. I’m with Sergeant Carlson. We have one shooting victim who needs to be airlifted immediately. Do you copy?”

“Yes, we do,” a male voice crisply replied in the place of Sharon’s Hampshire lilt.

“Who is this?” Chris asked.

“My name is Bobby Singer, I’m with the FBI. We’ve been trying to locate Jared Padalecki. Have you found him?’

“Yes, he’s safe. We need that Medevac now!”

“Where are you?”

“We’re at Jensen Ackles’ place. You can’t miss it: his house is on fire.”

“Copy that. We know where it is. We’ll have a copter to you soon. Have you found the shooter?”

“There are two. We killed one but the other got away,” Chris answered. “I’m figuring he’s going to take Oberon Pass. Ain’t no other way down this mountain.”

“Got that, thank you. The copter’s already airborne. I’ll have an ambulance stand by for … is it Jensen Ackles who’s been shot?”

“Affirmative,” Chris said.

“Just keep his heart beating. Help is on its way.”

Jared didn't know how much time had passed before Steve looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. “Holy shit, the copter’s already here!”

Chris gave a huge sigh and called Singer. "Thank you for responding so readily."

“Get on it, all of you. We want you off that fucking mountain now.” Singer said, still sounding like a NPR commentator instead of a federal agent.

“Affirmative,” Chris replied.

Jared looked at the sky but he was unable to spot anything that even remotely resembled a helicopter.

Steve noticed his searching gaze and said, “Don’t look; listen. That’s the best way to spot them.”

Jared did and suddenly he heard the rotor. He turned to left and saw a faint glimmer that initially looked like a star. However it wasn’t long before the noise became obvious and the glimmer turned out to be a host of high beams aimed at the ground.

Steve turned on his flashlight and waved. Chris forced Jared to turn his head against the whirlwind of snow the copter created as it landed. The doors slid open and heavily armed men poured out of the Medevac even though the rotors didn't slow down much.

“I’m Special Agent Murray,” a skinny towheaded man yelled over the roar. “Where’s the body?”

Steve gave directions, shouting himself hoarse in order to be heard over the noise.

“Okay, we’ll take over from here!” Murray said, “Go, get yourselves looked over!”

“What about the second shooter?”

“We’ve got two plows working their way up the Pass,” Murray said. “It’s too dark for us to sweep the woods but at first light we’re going to have Staties go through on snowmobiles. We’ll catch the bastard, don’t worry.”

Steve gave a nod of appreciation before he joined the medics who were securing Jensen onto a wire stretcher. The FBI agent named Murray escorted him, Chris, and Jared into the copter and even made sure they were belted into their seats before leaving.

Jared stared Jensen as the man's stretcher was snapped into position inside the helicopter. He felt Chris nudge him and turned.

“Listen to me,” Chris said. “When we get to wherever they’re taking us, call someone who knows a good lawyer.”

“Why?”

“Because the Feds rarely have your interest at heart in cases like this one,” Chris said in a clipped tone.

“What case?” Jared was too tired to care if he sounded like a parrot.

“The kind involving organized crime,” Chris answered.

“What makes you say that?”

“Steve and I kinda figured it out earlier. And the guy talking with Steve? He looked nothing like the other FBI agents. If I saw him on the street, I would’ve guessed he was a common thug, maybe something worse if he had on good pair of shoes and a Rolex. That meant he had an undercover assignment, probably quite recently since his haircut is pretty damn irregular for a Fed.

“And there is also the little fact that his gun was obviously not FBI-issued.”

“What?”

“The guy had the same gun as you, a Super Blackhawk.”

“It’s not my gun,” Jared explained, his words bleeding out of him too quickly for Jared to control. “It’s Jensen’s and he gave it to me because I couldn’t shoot to save…” Jared suddenly stopped and looked down at his empty hands. He felt Chris give a strong squeeze on his shoulder; it was meant to comfort him but all Jared could feel is the cold oblivion closing in on him. Jared looked at Chris, his eyes wide with desperation. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I tried but I wasn’t fast enough. I never thought I could be too slow … all my life I was told I was the fastest so I believed it. If I knew I would’ve doubled my sprints during training, I swear. But I believed what other people said…”

“Jesus, kid,” Chris said harshly, his eyes wide with shock. “I'm not blaming you for what happened to Jensen.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve known Jensen since we were swapping G.I. Joes back in Texas. And if he thought you were worth risking his life, then who am I to think otherwise?”

Jared didn’t answer but felt some of the darkness seeping into his vision retreat by the force of Chris’ conviction. Somehow he managed to fall asleep until the copter landed with a jolting thud. The doors slid open and the passengers were greeted with a swarm of medics, more FBI agents and enough police personnel to knock Jared out of his fugue state.

Two FBI agents hustled Jared into an ambulance with Chris who managed to hitch a ride in the same bus. Steve stayed with Jensen; Jared watching their ambulance trail behind his as the two vehicles sped off into the night.

* * *

  
**Wallingford, New Hampshire**

Bobby Singer prudently remained silent while watching Lindberg try to get the attention of the Staties, police officers, members of the sheriff department and FBI agents. At first glance the group looked impressive in number and the arsenal they were equipped with, but Singer’s been around long enough to recognize it for what it was: a jurisdictional nightmare.

The Staties were responsible for the White Mountains but the murders committed were related to Organized Crime which fell within the purview of the FBI. However, the ones who had most to lose, at least for tonight, was Wallingford Police Department. The small postcard-perfect New Hampshire town was the site of a massacre and among the victims was a police officer who made a mistake of going up against a seasoned hitman and paid with his life. Even the FBI knew better than to get in the way of the police department when they went after a cop killer.

“Gentlemen, I just got a call from the weather bureau. The storm is definitely finishing up,” Singer announced to the room. “Which means we need to get copters, snowmobiles, plows and any rough terrain vehicle available for this operation. We have reason to believe the person or persons responsible for tonight’s horror is located at what is locally known as Carver’s Rest. There are three possible roads to get up there, but because of this weather only Oberon Pass was available.

“Now, I want to impress something upon you. The killers are, in all likelihood, hired by the Mafia. Right now this is only conjecture, but I want you to understand what we’re up against. They have billions at their disposal, which leads the FBI to believe whoever they hired is the best of the best: someone with an extensive military background, you know the drill. So, if you have body armor, wear them. If you don’t, pair up with someone who does.”

“Why do you think the Mob is involved?” a Statie asked, genuinely curious.

“One of the people who was killed tonight was trying to get information from them. I believe this reason is why he was killed. Unfortunately or fortunately, however you look at it, a man witnessed his murder. I believe you know the gentleman: Mr. Jared Padalecki of the Boston Celtics.”

The murmurs of shock rippled through the room, as Singer predicted.

Lindberg added, “He is currently holed up with another rather well-known public figure, Jensen Ackles.”

The noise level wasn’t as loud as before, but it was still very noticeable.

Singer said, “Mr. Ackles bought a large tract of land at Carver’s Rest and built a home there. We have information that leads us to believe they were safe two hours ago. Now, we cannot contact them. We’re not sure if it’s because of the weather or because of human factor.

“Considering our luck so far, I’m inclined to go with the bad news. This means we’re going in hot, gentlemen. I won’t lie to you, catching the assassins will be a huge coup but for right now we must focus on the welfare of the two men trapped up there, going through only God knows what. We have been told Sergeant Steve Carlson of Wallingford Police Department and a civilian by the name of Christian Kane are trying to join up with them. They left about an hour ago. We have not had any contact with them as of yet, but that’s no surprise since this weather’s a bitch on any signal.”

"Sergeant Carlson has a satellite phone," Sharon said. "Why don't we just call him?"

"We don't know what their situation is, exactly," Lindberg answered. "And the last thing we want to do is give away their position if they're in a tight situation."

Sharon paled noticeably but said, "I see."

Singer stood up and pointed at the large map behind him. “We need to divide and conquer. Most of you are natives so you know how big an area we have to cover and all we have is moonlight for now. So, can each of the departments choose a leader and have that person come talk with me?

“I don’t have to remind you time is of the essence, so please do it quickly.”

Maybe it was Singer’s no-nonsense attitude or the fact that Padalecki was being hunted by down couple of killers, but each law enforcement group had their rep join the FBI within few minutes.

“My name is Sheriff Diane Connolly,” said a woman whose hardened features were pale and worn. “Wallingford’s a great little town. Linklater never needed our services, and now this.”

“Name’s Rhett Bluebird. I grew up and live in Valhaven, a small town near Carver’s Rest,” a Statie said. “I know the area pretty well.”

The last was a young man, probably younger than Singer’s son. His round face was pasty and though it was downright frigid in the building, he was sweating profusely. “Name’s Officer Jeremy Belton. I was off-duty tonight and didn’t get home until an hour ago. I … I have to say I am totally out of my depth, but Nathan was a friend and … Jesus, I want the bastard that did this.”

Sheriff Connolly gave the man a sympathetic look. “We’ll get him, son. We’ll get him.”

“Excuse me,” Sharon said as she entered the cramp office. “I have Chris Kane on the line.”

Singer quickly picked up the receiver and held a small conversation before asking, “Where's the Medevac?”

“About ten minutes from Ackles' home,” Lindberg answered.

"Kane said they got one of the killers but the other is still on the loose. Also, Ackles have been gravely wounded," Singer informed the group.

“And Padalecki?” Sheriff Connolly asked.

“He’s fine.”

"I'll start up the road blocks now,” Sheriff Connolly said

“It’s still too dark for snowmobiles but we can start to sweep Oberon Pass,” Bluebird volunteered. “That way we don’t unintentionally double-team with anyone else and waste time.”

“Good,” Singer said and turned to Officer Belton. “I need you and the rest of the police to secure Wallingford so if the bastard some how does come down the mountain, he doesn’t tear through the town like he did earlier.”

“Got it,” Belton said. “Should we set up patrols along the major roads too? I doubt he’s going to do the hootchie-kootchie down Main but we could spook him and maybe he’ll make a mistake.”

Singer doubted that very much but said, “Yes, do that.” He didn’t want Wallingford to go through another round of bloodbath should the second shooter make it down the mountain without getting caught. The groups dispersed quickly, each eager to get their team out of the building and into the murderous night, each hoping to dispense some retribution and gain national recognition by catching the cold-blooded cop killer.

“Murray could eyeball the body and give us an identification," Lindberg said. He then pursed his lips and frowned. “I didn’t expect two. Did you?”

“No, me neither, but that doesn’t mean Lorino isn’t capable of pulling new tricks. What surprises me is the fact that Lorino hired an African-American. That’s definitely something from the left.”

“But that also narrows down the list of suspects, doesn’t it?”

“Most definitely,” Singer answered. “What worries me is the fact that it might narrow down too much. That particular list is pretty damn small, Lindberg. And if we cross out those names, we’re screwed.”

“Any chance we can get some help from the other agencies?”

“I can pull in some favors but right now I don’t want to even think about that. Too much politicking for my taste, especially if you consider the fucking mess the current administration made out of all of us.”

Lindberg was only too well aware of the high attrition rate of seasoned supervisors and battle-proven agents. The federal agencies might well represent the nation’s interests, but they were hardly receptive when the White House or the Congress tried to shove their personal agendas down their throats. And the present administration seemed to be gunning for a record of sorts for infuriating the people guarding their very gates and walls.

The two FBI agents mingled with other personnel, making sure the pissing war, if existing, didn’t flare up and burn them all. The other FBI agents, sensing Singer’s political savvy, wisely stepped aside and let ‘Old Man Bobby’ work his magic in order to attain the greatest level of cooperation from the state and local law enforcement. For once they would like to be regarded as something else than the ‘Federal Bureau of Incompetents’ by the people they were assigned to work with.

Lindberg noticed Singer getting a second call from Kane but refrained from asking for an update. The last thing his supervisor needed was for him to yap around his ankles like an overeager dog. Twenty minutes later Lindberg fielded the call from Murray. He tensely waited until Singer was done speaking with Sheriff Connolly on the phone.

“Murray identified the dead man as Jack Contadino. He’s positive, Sir.”

“Okay, so that means the real threat is still out there, somewhere.”

“Yes, Sir. He said the Sergeant and Mr. Kane heard a truck drive away while they were trying to stabilize Ackles.”

“How bad is he?” Singer asked.

“Chest wound, and it's pretty damn bad from what Murray described.”

“Oh, fuck,” Singer said, his tired face drooping with more than just exhaustion. “Ackles is a writer, did you know that?”

Lindberg shook his head. “No, I didn't. What genre?”

“Historical non-fiction. The kid wrote a novel during his senior year in college, found an agent two months after he graduated, and then got it published before the year was over. There was even talk that the book would be nominated for the Pulitzer.”

“He’s that good?”

“His second book was even stronger,” Singer said softly. “It would be a damn shame to lose him. What about Padalecki?”

“He’s in complete shock but otherwise looks healthy.”

“I want round the clock protection for all of them and then have them moved to Mass General as soon as they're stable." Singer paused for a moment before adding, "Include Carlson and Kane in the transfer. When Lorino finds out what happened he’s going to be shitting bricks.”

“You don’t think this is over?”

“I know Tomas. This is far from over.”

* * *

  
**Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center  
Lebanon, New Hampshire**

As soon as the ambulances reached the hospital Chris pulled Jared into the men’s restroom. He handed over his cell and said,

“Call your agent or somebody who knows a lawyer. Do it now, kid.”

Jared called Rosenbaum who promptly tossed a fit when he heard what had happened to Jared. After ranting for nearly a minute Rosenbaum ordered, “Don’t say anything. Tell them you’re exhausted. Hell, get a nurse to give you a sedative. Just wait for me, all right?”

“Yeah, got it,” Jared replied dully.

Chris agreed with Rosenbaum’s advice and dragged Jared to the nearest floor station. He flagged down a pretty nurse and using the sweetest, huskiest voice possible, asked, “Hey, I am so sorry to bother you but my buddy here’s been through hell. Do you have any sedatives? Hell, we'll take Benadryl if you got some.

"He could’ve used one on the ride here but everyone was too busy panicking about the other guys to listen to him.”

“Oh my God, did you just come from Wallingford?”

“Yes, I would’ve said something but I wasn’t sure if we were suppose to talk about it or not.”

The nurse took a hard look at Jared's waxy face before making up her mind. “Wait here, I’ll be back with something.”

The something turned out to be Vicodin but Jared didn’t argue. He swallowed the pills dry and tossed aside the small cup of water. Chris gave an apologetic smile at the nurse who shot a sympathetic look at both men before making herself scarce.

“Mr. Padalecki?” a young doctor said as he approached them.

“Yes?” Jared answered, feeling drowsy already.

“My name is Doctor Tomlin. I’ll be looking after you. I heard you had quite an ordeal. Is there anything you’d like to tell me? Any allergies? Special medical conditions?”

“I’m shot,” Jared answered.

Chris turned to him. “What did you just say?”

Jared shrugged off his coat and rolled up the sweatshirt's sleeve. “Here, the shooter nailed me at the store. Jensen took care of it, though.”

“Okay,” Doctor Tomlin said while anxiously eyeing the tall athlete. “Why don’t we get that looked at.” He turned to Chris and said, “How about you?”

“I’m fine. I’ll just tag along since I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Well, I’m not quite sure I can allow that,” Doctor Tomlin said.

“I want him along,” Jared said, “I trust him.”

“Then … considering what you went through, I don’t see any reason why not. Please, it's this way.”

Chris walked two steps behind the doctor and Jared, his mind buzzing with concern as the athlete seemed to physically shrink with each step. Doctor Tomlin led them to an examination room. It wasn’t long before he pronounced that surgery probably would not be necessary though he ordered a MRI scan immediately.

Jared dutifully stripped out of his clothes and put on the largest pair of hospital pajamas which scraped his ankles and barely allowed his arms to fit through the sleeves. Chris waited until Jared left the room with a battalion of FBI escorts before calling Steve.

“Hey, anything on Jensen?” Chris asked.

“No, he’s still in surgery. They think the bullet’s still inside because they didn’t find any exit wound in his back.”

“Oh fuck,” Chris hissed. “Did he code or anything?”

“No, he was breathing by himself when he went in. But they were worried he wouldn’t be able to continue breathing on his own when the surgery started.”

“It’s a miracle he came this far.”

“I just heard something from a Fed named Lindberg. They found the truck the bastard used. Guess where it was?”

Chris gave a dry laugh in spite of his exhaustion. The obvious pride in Steve’s voice was hilarious. “He must have fucking blew a gasket when he found the Pass blocked by a car, and an abandoned police vehicle no less.”

“They said he took off on foot but they haven't been able to pick up his trail yet.”

“Can’t go far, not in this weather and not in that country,” Chris said. “You think he’ll make it?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Steve replied. “The bastard’s damn good, I gotta give him that much. And his luck’s been nothing less than stellar. Wait, here’s a nurse from the surgery.”

Chris felt his hand tremble as he waited for news.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Steve said. “The bullet didn’t go through because it glanced off Jensen’s ribs and exited through his side.”

“What? You're actually telling me it didn’t penetrate his heart?" Chris took a deep breath and said, "How the fuck is that possible?”

“I don’t know; I mean I heard about freaky stuff like this but I’ve never actually met someone who has experienced it.”

“What kind of a bullet was it?”

“Nobody knows, yet. They’re going to hand it over to the Feds as evidence. All she said was ‘the surgeon thought it wasn’t too big, but it looked pretty damn big to me.’ I swear I’m not making this up.”

“So Jensen’s going to live?” Chris whispered.

“Yeah, he’s unconscious now and they want to keep him that way in order to help his body repair itself, but yeah – he’s going to live.”

“Oh fuck,” Chris said and leaned against a wall before sliding down. “Oh thank God. Jesus, I thought we lost him. I thought I would have to call Alan and Donna and tell them that Jensen bled out and died in the fucking cold. I didn't want to do that to them. Oh God, I didn’t want to do it.”

“Breathe, Chris, breathe,” Steve instructed gently.

“Okay, look, I better get off the phone. You probably have to make a hundred calls right now.”

“Something like that,” Steve said in an unhappy voice. “And I have to contact Linklater to tell him what had happened in Wallingford.”

“Fuck me,” Chris said. “Do you have to?”

“Yeah, I better. Chris, if this comes to bite me in the ass, I might take up on your offer to join you when you cut a new track in April.”

“The offer’s wide open. Good luck, man.”

“Thanks.”

Chris pulled back his hair from his face and scrolled down the contact list on his cell. But before he could dial Jensen’s parents Jared returned with Doctor Tomlin. Jared saw him sitting on the floor and what little color he had died.

“It’s Jensen, isn’t it?” Jared asked. “What happened? Did something happen in the OR?”

“He’s okay,” Chris said, not at all surprised to find his voice trembling. However, he was taken back by the tears burning in his eyes. “The doctors think Jensen’s going to make it.”

“What? How?” The expression on Jared’s face clearly revealed the conflict between confusion and burgeoning hope. “The bastard shot his heart.”

“The bullet didn’t do too much damage. Hell, it didn’t even make it to his heart. I’m not lying, Jared: he’s going to be fine. Homeless and caffeine-deprived, but Jensen is going to make it.”

Doctor Tomlin remained wisely quiet as the two men collapsed on each other, crying quietly but openly. He was planning to find the nurse responsible for giving Ativan to Padalecki but wisely decided to forget about the incident. Facing off the old guards who worked at the nursing station with tearful eyes wouldn't earn him any respect, especially since he was the youngest doctor to be hired in the history of the teaching hospital.

* * *

  
**Phoenix, Arizona**

Manners watched CNN with grim despair. What was being revealed by the news channel was much worse than the intel he was currently gathering from his various sources. He didn’t know what had happened with Sterling’s mission but it was obvious to him something went fuck-all in New Hampshire. His secure line rang and Manners found himself sighing with relief.

“Yes?” he said in a drowsy voice, just in case the caller wasn’t who he expected.

“It’s me.” Sterling's voice was weak though Manners couldn't tell if it was from pain or exhaustion.

“What happened?”

“They paired me up with one of their own – a complete fool by the name of Jack Contadino. The son of a bitch fucked up everything. He was suppose to keep track of Padalecki in Boston and screwed that up to hell. That's how Padalecki saw me take out Connor. Ackles is down but the cops arrived before I was able to finish Padalecki.”

“I wasn’t told you would have company.”

“I thought as much,” Sterling said. “I need a safehouse. Where’s the nearest one?”

“Maine, let me e-mail you the address. Do you need medical help?”

“I hope not but I can’t say for sure. I’m sorry to bring this down on you but the Contadino kid was out of control. He thought this job was the best way to prove to everyone he had the biggest pair.”

Kim closed his eyes. How many times had he heard that complaint before? Medal collectors did nothing but bring down misery to those around them, and that’s if luck was on their side. More often that not, death was the result of unchecked ambition; especially in their business.

“Let me worry about that,” Kim said as he e-mailed the address to Sterling. “Just get to the safehouse.”

“Got it. I’ll contact you when I get there.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Kim hung up and then made the call he never thought he would make. Tomas Lorino answered on the second ring.

“It’s me,” Kim said.

“What’s wrong?” Lorino’s voice was tremulous, but not with worry. Kim knew the latest round of chemo did a number on the old bull.

“The New Hampshire job is incomplete.”

“What has happened?”

“Your men in Boston paired up mine with someone called Jack Contadino.”

A weary sigh echoed down the line. “I know Jack: smart but hotheaded. I’m guessing he didn’t like answering to your man?”

“Probably. Connor’s taken care of along with few others, but there was a witness who survived.”

“What did this witness see?”

“My man taking out Connor.”

“This is bad,” Lorino said, “but not impossible to fix.”

“That’s what I thought,” Kim said. “The witness is Jared Padalecki.”

“Oh, then it’s definitely doable,” Lorino said. “Don’t worry about it. How is your boy?”

“He’s hurt but he won’t tell me how bad.”

“He probably wouldn’t tell you if he was taking his last breath,” Lorino said in a fond voice. “Now that’s a real man. Too bad he isn't one of ours: he would’ve gone far in my family.”

“I’m sure he appreciates the sentiment,” Kim said. “I’ll let you go back to sleep. I am sorry to wake you but I thought you should know.”

“And I did. Thank you for being honest, and let me worry about Boston. I’ll have a talk with them. It won’t happen again.”

“I appreciate that. Good night, Mr. Lorino.”

“Good night.”

Kim sighed with relief. In spite of his reputation Lorino could be reasoned with, especially if you did certain type of business with the man. After all Lorino didn’t get to where he was and stay there by being irrational. Kim also knew Lorino trusted him and his outfit to carry out whatever missions were necessary, and since Kim had provided him with excellent service, Lorino was more than capable of understanding that it wasn’t Sterling who screwed it up but Contadino: a man who shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

Kim figured the boys in Boston were due for a hard lesson, and knowing Lorino it would probably be fatal, but he couldn’t give a damn. Not when Sterling nearly lost his life because of their fuck-up.

Kim logged into an account and checked Sterling’s personal savings. The numbers looked healthy, more than enough for Sterling to retire in comfort and relative safety.

 _The boy did buy the full retirement package_ , Kim thought as he jotted down some ideas. _Might as well see what I could come up with, in case he takes it_.

Unlike other managers who offered similar services, Manners did not burn his people when they went into retirement. This practice was probably why he lived so long while those very same managers found themselves either missing or victims of particularly bloody accidents.

Kim glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost five. It was officially too late for him to go back to bed. He trudged to the kitchen and made a fresh pot of coffee. His wife would appreciate the gesture and would gladly give him a hand when she was awake enough. Kim smiled as he returned to his study.

_Janice will definitely come up with something good if I can’t. She’s got imagination while I have a calculator for a brain._

She proved him right. By mid-afternoon Janice had hunted up enough information on a certain business venture that would be a good fit for a man like Sterling. Kim was grateful and proud and not at all surprised by her swift success. After all, it was Janice's strident opinion that the Middle East was too volatile to ply his trade and that he should consider domestic jobs in lieu of the more lucrative ones in that region. This was back in June of 2001. And, after 9/11 and Iraq 2.0, Kim was only too glad to have listened to her.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Day After  
Boston, Massachusetts**

Ben Manzoni drank his third espresso and it wasn’t even ten in the morning. He reread the papers but nothing had miraculously changed between the second and third cup. Contadino was dead, the nigger was MIA, and the FBI, led by Singer, was on the warpath. He knew his association with Contadino was already well known by the Bureau so he fully expected a visit from the Feds before noon. He had called his attorney earlier, ordering the man to clear his calendar for the next two weeks because his services would be required for the foreseeable future. His attorney took the command with an agreeable 'yes', 'of course' and rattled off few things he would need from Manzoni should the FBI drop by for a chat.

The headache that blossomed earlier was steadily growing, forcing him to consider retreating back to his house.

Manzoni noticed his driver's slight pallor when the man entered the kitchen. "What?"

“Sir, I just got a call. They found Russo,” Jason said.

“How?” Manzoni’s voice was barely audible. “How the fuck did that happen?”

“The old caretaker retired and the new one makes a habit of checking out the cemetery, even when he’s not scheduled to. He saw tire tracks, followed them and found the grave.”

Manzoni took the TV remote and started channel surfing. It was Channel 7 that had the story.

“…As you can see over my left shoulder there is more than one coroner’s van parked inside Mather's Rest. From what we’ve gathered so far the police have dug up at least two bodies, one of them a child. However, that might change as confidential sources tell us they have not finished digging.

“Reporting live from Waltham, this is Terry Martins for Channel Seven News.”

The Feds were going to be knocking on his door way before noon, and they won't go away empty-handed. Manzoni barked, “Let’s get out of here.”

They made it to the supply entrance when the bomb went off. Because the blast was concentrated in the back and the café’s picture windows were bulletproof the explosion only cracked them. However, the front door was made from salvaged wood so it exploded out into the street, tearing into the pedestrians who braved the cold weather for some genuine Italian food. Luckily, none of them were seriously injured despite various cuts and bruises. Manzoni and his men weren't so lucky: none of them survived. It would take the bomb crew and the crime unit two days to piece together what had happened inside _Lucetta’s pastries_. It took them another three to find all the body parts strewn about the place.

* * *

  
**Mass General Hospital  
Boston Massachusetts**

Singer stormed through the hospital's lobby with Lindberg barely keeping pace. His thunderous face discouraged any FBI personnel from approaching him. In fact, they swerved or looked away in order not to draw the supervisor's ire.

“What the fuck happened?” Singer barked at Murray who was chatting with the two police guards stationed right outside Padalecki's room. “Why hasn’t Padalecki been interviewed already?”

“Some nurse gave him medication last night before his transfer and he passed out. And when he woke up the first thing he did was lawyer up,” Murray said, exhaustion lining his face and voice.

“What?” Lindberg asked, incredulous.

“His agent, Mike Rosenbaum, came this morning with Harold Conniver,” Murray answered. “That ended any chance of us getting a word out of Padalecki.”

“Conniver? Who’s he?” Lindberg asked, unfamiliar with the attorney's name.

Singer closed his eyes then took off his glasses, wincing as if he was suddenly sidelined with a headache. “Harold Conniver was an A.D.A. four years ago. Michaels, who was the D.A. at the time, was grooming him to take over when he retired, but there was a changing of the guards at Beacon Hill, and Harry got shafted. They brought in an outsider and totally ignored his record, which was pretty damn stellar. Harry quit, joined up with one of the best legal defense firms in town and pretty much have been giving the D.A.’s office the middle finger since then.”

“How does a sports agent get his hand on such a guy?” Lindberg asked.

“The usual way, I presume: the good old boys network,” Singer answered. He threw a glance at the closed door and snarled, “Son of a **bitch**!”

“Do you want to take a crack? I’ve made no headway since Padalecki woke up," Murray said.

Singer tossed his coffee cup and said, “Don’t come in unless I say so. And make sure we’re not disturbed.”

“Yes, Sir,” the two agents replied while the police officers gave sharp nods.

Singer knocked on the door before entering. Conniver looked up from his laptop and flashed a warm smile. “Bobby, how are you?”

“Good, could be better, but isn’t that always the case?”

“Just about,” Conniver answered. He turned to Padalecki and a bald man wearing a suit that probably cost more than Singer's entire wardrobe. “This is Field Supervisor Bobby Singer. He’s a legend in the FBI and the Boston Police Department for going after organized crime. A lot of people are curious as to why he’s still in Boston and not knocking them dead in DC.”

“Boston has Brigham.”

Conniver looked at him with genuine contrition. “I’m sorry, I forgot. Is Amy doing all right?”

“She’s doing fine. Her cancer’s been in remission for nearly two years now.”

“That’s good to hear,” Conniver said. “I can still remember her Thanksgiving dinners.”

“She still asks for you,” Bobby said. “She understands why you don’t swing by anymore, but she misses your Yankee wit something fierce. Too many New Yorkers around her dinner table now.”

“They’re importing them, aren’t they?”

“Yep,” Singer said. “Joining the FBI isn’t as glamorous as it used to be for the locals. No more funneling from Boston College for us.”

“Probably for the best,” Conniver said.

“Probably,” Singer said. “Harry, you know why I’m here.”

“I can guess,” Conniver said, taking a glance at his client who looked fascinated by the friendly exchange between them. “Can’t let you do it though. Not if I want my client to keep on breathing.”

“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” Bobby said. “We still haven’t located the second and probably the primary shooter. By the way, do you know who was killed up there?”

Padalecki shook his head. “No, but you’re right about him not being the man who killed Patrick.”

“Thought so,” Singer said. “The dead man is Jack Contadino. Low level thug working for or shall I say worked for Ben Manzoni.”

“That son of a bitch?” Conniver said.

“You mean client, don’t you?” Singer said dryly.

“No, I don’t go near organized crime cases. They give me hives.”

“Well, Manzoni’s moved up in the world since your days at Government Center. He reported directly to Barassi who answers to Tomas Lorino. You remember Tommy Boy, don’t you?”

“The bastard’s still alive?” Conniver asked. “He has to be in his nineties by now.”

“Ninety-two and won’t last another year, or at least I’m hoping.”

“Still can’t see why Mr. Padalecki should in any way cooperate with the FBI,” Conniver said.

“Because Lorino hates loose ends, and your client’s one of them. There is also the fact that the shooter still has to finish his job.”

“He’s after Mr. Padalecki because he’s a witness: he was never the primary target,” Conniver reasoned. “You agree with that assessment?”

“I do, but that still doesn’t change the fact that Padalecki saw him and can identify him,” Bobby said with a wry smile. “Doesn’t matter if he’s willing to cooperate with us or not; the bastard won’t take any chances. Last night pretty much proves that.”

“So, what do you want?” Conniver asked. “Let’s face it, Witness Protection Program is impossible for someone like Mr. Padalecki and, according to you, he’s a walking target whether he cooperates with you or not.”

“Because if he works with us we can pull in Lorino. All it takes is one trip and the man’s heart will give. Lorino dies, his son comes to power, and that son of a bitch is nothing like his dad. He’ll fuck up in no time and we’ll be able to put him away for a hundred years. The entire syndicate will collapse and Padalecki will be forgotten in the chaos.”

“What about the killer?” Padalecki asked.

“We’re doing our best. Could you at least help us at least identify the man?”

Padalecki looked at Conniver who gave a single nod. “Okay, I can do that,” he said. “What about Jensen?”

“Mr. Ackles is sedated for now, and we have guards with him at all times,” Singer said. “We're planning to move him to a safer location as soon as his doctors give the go-ahead. His popularity will probably help him. The last thing the Mafia needs is to attract attention by killing someone who is so well-known in the literary circle.”

“Why is that?” Padalecki asked.

“It’s strange; in some ways the pen is mightier than the sword for the Mafia. They’ve always enjoyed a kind of a semi-glamorous limelight due to the many true-crime novels about them. Should anything happen to Mr. Ackles, I suspect the backlash from the literary circles will be severe, as he is their current champion.

“It’s not a guarantee but I think they know better than to stir up that hornet’s nest. Besides, he hasn’t seen anything of significance, right?”

Padalecki quickly shook his head. “No, when we got out it was only Contadino who went after him.”

“Contadino isn’t so valuable a soldier that they would risk a war, but the one who got away – that one’s a different bird altogether.”

“My client tells me he’s black,” Conniver said. “There can’t be that many African-American hitmen.”

“Most we know of are in the drug business, which makes perfect sense if you’re considering Lorino,” Singer said.

“I have to admit I was surprised to hear that,” Conniver said. “Lorino isn’t the type to go PC.”

“I’m just as surprised as you are,” Singer admitted. “But he always was unpredictable.”

“Hopefully not for long,” Conniver said.

“From your lips to God’s ear.” Bobby turned to Padalecki and asked, “Do you know why Patrick wanted to talk to you?”

Padalecki shook his head.

“He was approached by Russo to get the dirt on you.”

“What?” Padalecki said, his voice thick with disbelief. “You’re lying.”

“Easy there,” Conniver said and placed a restraining hand on Padalecki's shoulder. “Don’t give him anything he can use.”

“Russo made threats against Patrick and his father so Patrick caved in. But he couldn’t go through with it; couldn’t put you in danger. So he came to me and we tried to set up a sting.”

“That didn’t go so well, did it, Bobby?” Conniver said. “No witness, no corroborating testimony, no evidence. Face it, you have bupkis.”

“For now,” Singer said patiently. “But we never stay empty-handed for long. Patrick Connor died because he tried to protect you, Mr. Padalecki. Think about that before you do anything.”

Singer was immediately accosted by Lindberg as soon as he left Padalecki’s room.

“Sir, we just got a report from the police over at Waltham. A caretaker for a cemetery reported a break-in early this morning. He spotted fresh tire tracks on the snow, decided to take a look around and found a disturbed grave. He became worried that someone made off with the body so he started digging. He found not just one corpse but five.

“Sir, from the description I think he found Russo and his entire family.”

“Murray, get down there now. See if you can either confirm or dismiss.”

“Yes, Sir,” Murray said. “And if it is Russo?”

“Pull Manzoni in; if you can find him that is. For all we know he’s at the bottom of a hole too. Make sure our forensics team gets the first go-around with the bodies. If anyone bitches, just say the magic word. I’m sure 'the Mafia' is the last thing any locals want to get tangled with.”

“Got it, Sir,” Murray said.

* * *

  
“Is he familiar, Special Agent Murray?” Detective Kemper said staring the children's corpses with red-rimmed eyes.

“Yeah, he’s William Russo. That’s his wife Bella and his two children Madeline and George. Jesus, they cleaned out his kids too.”

“I’m three months from retirement,” Kemper said in a weary voice. “So I have no problem with FBI taking jurisdiction over this.”

“Thanks,” Murray said. "I hope your last weeks at work go a lot smoother than today."

Kemper paused for a moment then said, “Good luck.” He quickly exited the cold room, leaving Murray alone with the bodies.

Murray looked at the opened eyes of the children and closed them. He knew he’d get flack but he really didn’t care. He knew the kids personally and thought them genuinely sweet. How in hell Russo ended up siring two kids as innocent as Georgie and Maddie was a complete mystery to him. And now it will remain as one.

“What do we have here?”

Murray looked at the man standing in the doorway. “Wow, they hauled in the big guns, didn’t they?”

“Shut up,” Dr. Steven Williams said. He looked at the bodies and gave a low whistle. “They took out an entire family?”

“How’d you figure that?” Murray asked.

“The kids got their father’s cleft chin and their mother’s hair. Who are they?”

“The guy’s Will Russo, one of Lorino’s thugs.”

“What the hell did he do?” Dr. Williams said, eyeing the children with sadness and distaste.

“Still trying to figure that out,” Murray answered. “Give me a ring when you’re done. Doesn’t matter when: just call.”

“Will do.” Williams was already drifting away into his work as he neatly laid out his various instruments.

Murray winced when he saw them and wondered who in their right mind possessed the imagination to come up with those hideous tools.

He drove at breakneck speed back to Boston and made a quick detour to pick up lunch before returning to Mass General. He was munching on his Cuban Chicken Special in his car when the call came in.

Ben Manzoni was killed in his café on North End not fifteen minutes ago.

“Fuck!” Murray shouted and slammed the steering wheel a few times out of complete frustration. However, by the time he arrived at the hospital to report to Singer nobody would’ve guessed he had thrown a temper tantrum.

* * *

  
**February, 2009  
FBI Headquarters, Washington DC**

“So, did anyone respond to our inquiry?” Kripke asked.

It had been a solid two weeks since Wallingford but the entire law enforcement community was coming up with nothing save more bodies; the latest being Manzoni and his crew. At least his family was spared unlike Russo's. Barassi and his wife and kids were still MIA; nobody was sure where they had disappeared to after they landed in Nassau International Airport in the Bahamas. Kripke along with most everybody else in the Bureau believed they were shark food.

“I pulled in every favor I know but I got nothing of value. Not from the DEA or the ATF,” Nutter answered.

“Fantastic, so all we’ve got is that the shooter’s a big black guy. That should get us far.”

“What does this look like to you?” Nutter said as he handed over printouts. “I got them from the DEA.”

“Like paper,” Kripke answered, flipping through copies of DEA memos and files, "filled with useless data."

Nutter shook his head, “The color isn’t right. I don’t think the original was printed on white paper.”

“So what?”

“What outfit do we know print regularly on colored paper? Besides Hollywood?”

Kripke paused then his eyes widened dramatically. “Jesus, the CIA.”

Nutter gave a short nod, “Damn straight. This intel probably got channeled to Langley first. In fact, I’m betting they edited the material out before sending it to us. I’m also betting the same thing’s going to happen with ATF.”

“Why the hell would they get involved in something like this?”

“Because they know something we don’t and they don’t want to share.” Nutter said as he took the bundle back from Kripke. “And whatever it is they’re willing to fuck with not just us but the DEA and the ATF to protect their interest.

“Makes you wonder what it is they’re protecting, doesn’t it?”

“How far do you think they’ll go?” Kripke asked.

“As far as they want to, which is something we can’t even hope to contemplate.” Nutter sighed. “We have to get Singer down here so we can talk in person. He’s not going to like this but it’s the fucking CIA. Those bastards will bury him if he doesn’t back off.”

“That’s not going to scare him,” Kripke said grimly. “All it’ll do is piss him off.”

“They’ll threaten more than just his job,” Nutter said. “They’ll also go after his unit in Boston, if necessary.”

“How personal could they make this?”

“Let me put it this way: Amy can never afford to get sick again. Hospitals stays could become very chancy for someone in her condition.”

“I’ll call Singer and get him down here tomorrow,” Kripke said, his voice tight with worry. He had always considered Singer his polar opposite, but, in spite of the differences Kripke liked and respected Singer. And the prospect of the field supervisor being annihilated by the CIA for doing his job was galling.

* * *

  
**Boston, Massachusetts**

Jared nervously wetted down his hair since brushing it didn’t do any good. He didn't even bother to look at his face. It was a stark study of tension and fear, having no trace of the happy man he was only a month ago.

Rosenbaum looked at him and said, “You don’t have to see him, you know.”

“Mike, please,” Jared said, gripping the sink tightly in order not to slam his agent against the wall. "It was me who requested this, not Jensen.”

“I’m just trying to spare you some pain.”

“I know, and I’m grateful for it but I need to see him. I have to see he's okay.”

Jared wasn’t lying when he said he had to. He needed to see with his own eyes that Jensen was going to survive. That he didn’t fuck it up so bad that the writer would be paying for Jared's stupidity for the rest of his life.

“All right, I’ll wait for you downstairs.” Mike's words were gracious; the hard tone was anything but.

Jared nodded. He exited the bathroom, ignored the two bodyguards assigned to him and knocked on Jensen’s door. A nurse exited and gave him a warm smile.

“You can go in,” she said.

“Thank you,” Jared whispered.

He entered the room alone. Jensen was propped on pillows. Jared was shocked to see how thin he had become. It had only been two weeks since the hellish night but Jensen looked like he’d lost at least ten pounds.

“Oh hey, good to see you,” Jensen said with a genuine smile. “People told me you were okay, but I couldn’t stop worrying, you know?”

“Yeah, I do actually.”

“Sit down, tell me what’s been happening. My friends have given me an edited version of the news.”

Jared turned to the television. “You don’t get CNN?”

“It’s broken. I can’t get anything.” Jensen's frown deepened. "I think Chris actually broke the damn thing while I was asleep so I wouldn't be overwhelmed."

Jared suddenly wanted to bolt out of the room. He'd believed Jensen was aware of the entire situation and had planned their talk around that.

“You okay there?”

Jared looked at the pale man tucked into the hospital bed. “I just … the FBI’s floundering. Did you know that?”

“No, Singer barely told me anything. Steve and Chris had to fill me in,” Jensen said. “It has something to do with the Mob, right?”

“Yeah, the FBI thinks they were trying to set up a point shaving scheme.”

“How? With you?” Jensen asked. “Are you in trouble with them?”

“No, Patrick was, though,” Jared gave a dry, dismal laugh. “They approached him and made an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“They thought to use him to get to you?”

“No, as it turns out I was the patsy. Patrick set me up, Jensen. The only reason he was with me was because they wanted him to.”

“Fuck no,” Jensen said, sitting up straight. “Are you serious?”

“They wanted him to get enough material on me for blackmail,” Jared explained. “Patrick was scared: they threatened him and his father, which was why he said yes initially, but once the ball started rolling he couldn’t do it.

“Singer also said Patrick contacted him. Told him what had happened and volunteered to wear a wire to help the FBI set the bastards up. And that’s why he died. So I guess I can’t be angry…”

“Of course you can,” Jensen interrupted. “The guy fucked you over, Jared. You can definitely be angry. Hell, I’d be furious. But he also tried to do the right thing and that counts for something too. It’s up to you on how you would want to remember Patrick, but…”

“But?” Jared prompted eagerly when Jensen went quiet.

“But it sounds like the guy was between a rock and a hard place, as trite as that sounds. Given what he had Patrick did something amazing, and he did it for you, so that’s something. Right?”

“I don’t know if I’m angry, disappointed, afraid or confused,” Jared whispered. “I don’t know what I’m suppose to feel or what I’m suppose to do now. Mike, my agent, my teammates – they all expect me to go back to the Jared Padalecki they knew. My family’s so scared for me they’re not even willing to ask directly what the fuck happened in New Hampshire. They just want _their_ son back. But I can’t come back, Jensen. I don’t know how.”

“I heard that so many times,” Jensen said. He looked at Jared with something greater than pity, something akin to understanding. “When I wrote my first book I interviewed a lot of soldiers from the Vietnam War. They said almost the same damn words as you just did. Some of them managed to return to who they were, some never could, some didn’t even want to try: too tired, too scared, I think. There were few though who knew they couldn’t be who they were before the war so they decided to be someone different.”

“Like a new job? New lifestyle?”

“No, they didn’t surrender who they were – just that … you know sunflowers follow the direction of the sun throughout the day, right?”

“Yeah, I read that somewhere,” Jared answered, puzzled by the sudden change in topic.

“Well, if by an act of God, the sun rises north and settles in the south, I don’t think the sunflowers would become extinct like other flowers. It’d just rotate its face until it could follow the sun on its new path. It’d still be a sunflower, with one fundamental change, is all.”

“How do I do that?”

“You have to make peace with yourself, with Patrick, and also with what happened to us. I gotta tell you, I’m scared out of my mind 24-7. For the first time my nightmares are nowhere near as terrifying as my waking hours, so I'm pretty much near my breaking point." Jensen sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Every time I see a black man, even an FBI agent, I have to stop myself from screaming for help. Never mind I never saw the killer – it’s just the thought that that guy is out there somewhere, probably angry as hell – well, it’s enough to make me piss in my sweats, you know?”

“Oh yeah, I know,” Jared said. “I might have good news about that. My attorney told me the man who headed the mob family that’s responsible for all this shit died last night. His name was Tomas Lorino if nobody told you.”

“He’s dead?” Jensen asked, his face bright with relief.

“Yeah, so my lawyer thinks this entire mess is going to be forgotten by the new regime. The last thing they need is something like this stinking up their happy new home.”

“But how does that help?”

“Singer is pretty damn sure the person assigned to do the killings was ordered back. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, it does actually,” Jensen said. “If this guy’s a pro and I think he is, he’s not the type to be controlled by his emotions, so yeah, if he’s been told to leave us alone: he will. If he tries anything stupid he’ll be going off the reservation and that’s pretty much suicide in a profession like his.”

Jared smiled, his first genuine one since they were rescued. “Where did you pick up all this lingo? Off the reservation and all the other stuff you’ve been spouting off since I met you.”

Jensen’s pallor suddenly disappeared. Jared’s smile grew wider. “The truth, dude.”

Jensen sighed and closed his eyes. “When I was about fourteen I thought about being a Navy SEAL, okay? So I subscribed to _Soldier of Fortune_ behind my parents’ back. I still flip through it whenever I’m in Borders.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Shut up, it was a phase.”

“Oh my God,” Jared howled with laughter. He had to grip his chair in order not to fall off of it.

“It’s not that funny, you dickwad!” Jensen shouted, his voice full of mock outrage. “I would’ve made a damn good SEAL!”

“Dude, you’re way too pretty to be a SEAL. Hell, you could’ve probably married one…” Jared wheezed out between bouts of laughter.

Jensen nailed him in the face with a pillow. “Jackass!” he growled with smiling eyes.

Jared looked at him, the former tension had melted out of the gangly frame. “You would've made a terrible soldier, Jensen. You can’t hurt people even when they’re actively trying to kill you. Hell, I figured that out an hour after I crashed into your life.”

“And you came to this stunning conclusion how?”

“You could’ve killed Contadino in the kitchen but you didn’t. You wounded him just enough for him to drag his bleeding ass back outside.” Jared tucked the pillow behind Jensen and sank back into his chair. “That makes you a decent person; it also makes you a bad soldier.”

“How can you be sure I didn’t just miss?”

“You didn’t use the rifle. If you did you could’ve taken his head off. Am I right?”

“We were in the kitchen, close quarters and maneuverability and all that.”

Jared shook his head emphatically. “No, if you meant to kill you would’ve. All your guns were well used. I can’t see how someone who can handle that many firearms could miss a target as large as a man from across the kitchen.”

Jensen’s blush deepened. “Maybe I freaked out.”

“Not saying you didn't, but at least you managed to keep your head on your shoulders, which is probably why we’re both alive today.”

“What happens now?”

Jared’s good humor disappeared. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “The FBI wants me to testify in front of a grand jury.”

Jensen frowned. “I’m confused; why bother? The man who set this up is dead. Hell, most everyone involved in this is six feet under, right?”

“They want the grand jury to indict not only Russo but all his bosses. My attorney said one of them is probably still alive and kicking. And the FBI has solid proof I wasn’t the only Celtics member they were trying to hook.”

“Holy shit,” Jensen said, “are you sure?”

“I’m not but they are. And if they’re right it means some of my fellow teammates were, or maybe still are, in the same damn boat.”

“What exactly do they want you to testify about?”

“They’re going to make a causal chain link so I need to testify about my relationship with Patrick.”

“Jesus Christ, don’t they realize what that will do to your career?”

“They don’t really give a fuck about my career,” Jared said sarcastically. “They’re too entrenched with their obsession to even consider what collateral damages could come out of this. Hell, Wallingford is already in the distant past for them.”

“Could it be a closed testimony?”

“They’re guaranteeing it will be but my attorney says that wouldn’t matter one bit. It’ll leak out to the press within forty-eight hours if not sooner.”

“Couldn’t they leave you out? Just use what they’ve got?”

“Not if they want to establish the point shaving scheme as the primary motive for the murders.”

“What will happen if you testify?”

“I’ll probably be benched for the rest of the season. Gaines is really good so the team won’t suffer much even though he’s a rookie. After the season’s over they’ll probably trade me but it won’t be for my benefit. It’ll take another season or two before my career is officially over.”

“If that happens what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know, Jensen,” Jared said desperately. “All I ever wanted to do was play ball.”

“You know, there are gay sports teams. Maybe you could join one of those?”

Jared shook his head. “It’s not the same. I don’t want to be a gay athlete in a gay team. I want to be a pro-baller in the NBA. I know that sounds ugly but it’s the truth. I don’t want my sexuality to define where I play and whom I play with. Me liking guys … that’s private, Jensen. I'm not angling for anything by tell you that, I swear.”

“No, I know what you mean,” Jensen agreed. “I wouldn’t want my writing topics to be limited in scope because of my sexual preferences. But then my homosexuality never interfered with my writing, and I was never forced to choose one over the other.”

“It’ll end my career. I have no doubt about that.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You’re kidding, right? How many gay pro athletes do you know? Fuck, Jensen, how could you even ask such a question?”

“I know historically nobody’s come out of the closet while they were still playing, but maybe it’s time someone did,” Jensen said. “I’m not saying it’ll be an easy fight or that you’ll win, but the alternative is that you live like this indefinitely. Can you really stand that? I know I couldn’t.”

“What makes you think I can’t? And it won’t be forever. I have maybe seven years ahead of me as a pro before I retire, and that’s if I don’t get injured earlier. After that who gives a fuck?”

“You will, and the people of Wallingford who are still burying their dead. Remember my buddy Steve? The guy who rescued us? He just lost his job. His boss is a fucking prick and couldn’t stand the competition so he used the murders to remove Steve from the force.”

“What? How the hell could he blame Steve?”

“Five people died in one night while he was in charge, and though you and I know better a lot of people don’t. So there goes Steve’s career; but do you know who the real losers are? The people of Wallingford, because now they’re stuck with a shitcan for a police captain and trust me, with Steve gone I figure it’ll only be couple of years before the competent ones in the station either quit or transfer out of town.

“It won’t be long before Wallingford finds out they haven’t hit rock bottom yet. They would've been able to pull through given time with the murders, but no town can survive a corrupt police department.”

“You’re not going to rebuild your home, are you?”

Jensen shook his head. “No, I’m going back to Richardson for a while and get my head straight. Besides, my mom’s having a herd of kittens and I have to see her just to calm her down. How about yours?”

“My mom and dad are camped in my house,” Jared said. “They’re planning to go back home this weekend. Then my brother’s coming for a week; after that my sister, Megan, is dropping by. You get the picture.”

“I most certainly do, which is why I’m going home. That way I get to at least eat home cooked meals while my family has a nervous breakdown around me.”

“You really think I should testify?” Jared asked bluntly.

Jensen didn’t look at all taken back by his defensive tone. “Yes, I do. Legally, your attorney’s probably earning his keep, but I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking about what your actions or lack of will do to not only to Wallingford but for all the other poor bastards who got hung out to dry by the likes of Russo and his buddies.”

“I’ll get crucified, Jensen,” Jared said hoarsely.

“By whom, Jared? The media? The bigots? The leeches whose only job is to suck the life out of you while kissing your ass? Because if that’s the case then maybe it’s time you stepped back and decide what matters more: your love of the game or your self-respect, hell your self-preservation for that matter.”

Jared didn’t answer and Jensen didn’t expect him to either. The two sat in thoughtful and companionable silence as noises from the hallway drifted into the room.

* * *

  
Singer heard timid knocking and looked up to see his new administrative assistant, Diane Levy, standing at the doorway. She was definitely talented with computers and knew how to multi-task better than anyone on the team, but he still missed his old admin, Maggie. She’d been with him since the Reagan Administration and Singer honestly thought he’d retire before Maggie did.

“Sir, I have a package for you,” Diane said. “It was suppose to have been delivered last week but it got lost between the mailroom and security.”

Singer rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I remember a next-day FedEx delivery that took three weeks to get to this floor.”

Diane smiled. “Well, this isn’t that bad.”

Singer took the package and nearly dropped it. It was postmarked the day the Wallingford Massacre happened. It also originated from the same town.

“Thank you,” he said absently and waited until he had complete privacy before he opened the package. A folded piece of paper fell out along a small tape recorder.

> Bobby,
> 
> Russo scheduled a meeting early this morning without telling me about it. I had no time to contact you guys, so I had to improvise. I got to the place early and managed to set up a recording device under the table.
> 
> It’s all here, everything. Russo was so angry I was scared he was going to shoot me right then and there at the restaurant. I know the guy’s got a temper but something felt off this time around. I think he’s scared and, on first glance that should make me happy, but I’m not because if it’s bad news for him, odds are it’s bad news for me too.
> 
> Anyway, here’s the tape. I’m mailing it to you just in case Russo does make good on his threats before I could see you. I hope it’s what you’re looking for.
> 
> Please call me as soon as you finish listening. I really want my dad out of harm’s way ASAP. His health is deteriorating and if we’re to set up some kind of decent medical care for him I have to arrange it in advance.
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Patrick

  
Singer closed the blinds to his office before listening. Connor was right; it was everything Singer could hope for. Too bad the tape was useless since the evidentiary chain was destroyed by Connor’s death. Singer called the agents assigned to protect Padalecki in order to locate the athlete. It was no surprise to find the basketball player was with Ackles. Singer was well aware Padalecki had made frequent requests to visit the writer and spent time with the man even when he was floating in and out of consciousness or in dead sleep due to heavy medication.

Singer grabbed Murray and Lindberg on his way to Mass General. He understood why Padalecki was reluctant to testify. The career the young man worked so hard for would be laid to ruins if he revealed his relationship with Connor. Lehne promised a closed testimony but even Singer knew that was no guarantee. Sooner or later someone will talk: the only question was to whom and for what price.

_How do I ask him to give up everything he fought for? Especially when there's little to gain from it? Russo's dead, Manzoni's dead, Barassi's probably with them and Lorino's gone to hell, finally. So what is it that I want from this kid?_

Singer wasn't so sure the answer to his question until he saw Ackles with Padalecki. _The truth_ , he realized. _I want the goddamn truth._

Padalecki's smile disappeared when he saw the FBI agents. "This is a private meeting," he snapped. "And I'm still not talking to _you._ "

Singer wordlessly handed over Connor's letter. Padalecki took it with great reluctance and read it with Jensen looking over his shoulder.

"Jesus Christ," Jensen whispered. "How long have you had this?"

"I got it today," Singer answered.

"Did you listen to the recording?" Padalecki asked.

"Yes, I did, and no, you don't want to hear it, Mr. Padalecki, trust me." Singer glanced at Murray. "Russo wasn't just a thug; he did what he did because he loved to inflict pain. Getting paid to hurt people was just a bonus for him."

"I don't understand, if you knew how dangerous Russo was why wasn't there more protection for Patrick?" Padalecki said, his entire frame rattling with barely-controlled rage. "How could you let him go around without somebody looking out for him?"

"And how would we do that?" Murray asked. "Wallingford's pretty small town. Russo would've known the game was up the moment we dropped one of our own in there. He didn't get to living as long as he did by being stupid. The man was a cagey bastard, we all knew it and we couldn't risk exposing Connor."

"So doing nothing was your plan?" Padalecki shot back. "And by helping you he was exposed already, because somebody in your team obviously told Lorino about Patrick. Tell me, does the FBI have a lead yet on who leaked this mess to the Mob? 'Cause it sure as hell wasn't Patrick."

"It's an on-going investigation," Lindberg explained in a gentle tone. "As you can imagine something like this isn't taken lightly by the FBI. We'll find out the leak and trust me there will be hell to pay."

"Sorry, but trusting you guys seem like the fastest way to die." Padalecki looked at Ackles and shook his head. "I got too much to lose, and I'm not just talking about my career here."

Ackles visibly deflated but not before throwing a look of anger towards Singer and his men. It was then Singer realized the writer was probably talking Padalecki into cooperating before he barged in and blew it all to hell.

"I'm not sure how you got in but I'd appreciate it if you left," Ackles said. "Don't make me call hospital security because even with your fancy badges, they have the right to toss you out of here."

"I am sorry about all of this," Singer said. "Like you said it's a fucking mess but looking the other way won't make this go away, Mr. Padalecki. Honestly, it won't." Singer looked down at his shoes, suddenly aging by decades. "I wish I could tell you otherwise but I can't. I never could."

The three FBI agents left the room. Lindberg turned to Singer, "What now, Sir?"

"Go back to square one, I guess," Singer replied. "Why don't you guys get some rest? You have to be running on fumes by now."

Murray shrugged. "I got nothing better to do. Lindberg has the worst taste in movies I've ever seen."

Singer somehow managed a smile. "You're still looking for a new place to live?"

Murray nodded. "I don't think it's safe for me to return to my old apartment, not with Alex Lorino taking his father's throne."

"But you never met him, right?" Singer asked.

"No, but that doesn't mean the boy doesn't know how to hold a grudge. He's going to take what I did personally."

"Still, go get some rest," Singer said. "I'll need you sharp tomorrow."

"Will do, Sir," Lindberg answered for both of them.

* * *

  
**Staten Island, New York**

"So, this is the son of a bitch who betrayed my family?" Alex Lorino asked his most trusted advisor, Michael Ferrero, while flipping through the black and white pictures of Chad M. Murray.

"Yes, it is," Ferrero answered. He had spent most of his adult life serving Alex's father, but when he heard Alex wanted him to continue in the same capacity Ferrero seriously considered retiring. Unfortunately, he wasn't given a choice as Alex made it plain that his refusal would be considered a betrayal of the worst kind, and his reprisal would reflect that belief.

"Nobody fucks with us and gets away with it, not even the F-B-I," Alex said. "We've got to fix this problem and fix it quick."

"Alex, he's an agent with the FBI. We could set him up for a hard fall but that will take time."

"No, I don't want him to go down for racketeering or drugs; I want him dead, Mikey. Dead as my father, God bless him."

Ferrero gave a slight nod. "I'll look into it."

"Do that," Alex said. "Anything else?"

"No, this is it for today."

"Okay then, I have to make a few phone calls so fuck off."

Ferrero gave another polite nod of understanding and left. It wasn't until he was back in his own house that he felt safe enough to make a call to his oldest ally.

"It's me," Ferrero said, "and before you ask - no, his obsession with the FBI agent hasn't abated. If anything it's worsened."

"What's the worst case scenario if the agent dies?" Daniel Giordani asked.

"You already know the answer. The fool already has the entire NYC Police Department gunning after him. We can't afford to piss off the FBI the same way. I guarantee that if this agent dies, we won't last a year, not with what's been happening in Jersey.

"The vultures are already circling, aren't they?"

"Yeah, they can smell fresh meat from miles away and it's no secret Alex is nothing like his father."

"We need to get a handle on this fast, Danny. Otherwise, we can all kiss our asses goodbye."

"Let me make a few calls; see what's up. I'll get back to you soon, okay?"

"You have a backup plan for handling this?"

"I have backup plans for Armageddon, you dumb fuck. Why else would Tomas have kept me around?"

"Call me soon, Danny."

"I will, Mike, I will."

* * *

  
**March, 2009  
New York City, New York**

Alex Lorino stepped out into the cold night air, glad to leave behind the partying denizens of the most popular nightclub in town. He looked at the New York City skyline and smiled. All this was his for the picking: no more old world laws, no more playing nice with the fucking cops. He would usher the Lorino Family into the twenty-first century, not with lawyers and dummy corporations but with blood and violence. And after he was done it'll be like the 80's again, before cancer struck down his father and sawed off the old man's balls.

Alex Lorino was dead before he hit the bottom step. The long crowd lined up in front of _Dusk_ heard and saw nothing, not even Lorino's bodyguards who were trained to spot anything remotely suspicious within a city block. They swarmed over their charge and watched helplessly as the club-goers screamed and either called 911 or took pictures with their cell phones in hopes of selling the pictures to the _Post_ before the hour was over.

Manners looked down at the chaos from his rifle scope. He left the sniper rifle on the rooftop but took the scope with him as it was specifically tailored to his needs. The weapon on the other hand was disposable, and he knew it was better to leave it than risk being spotted with something bulky right after a shooting. He also knew NYC was wired to the hilt with cameras everywhere. The last thing he needed was a grainy photo of him carrying a suspiciously shaped duffle bag.

He walked down a block and hit 23rd where he was able to successfully flag a taxi in spite of it being Saturday night.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked.

"Port Authority," Manners answered.

"Going on a vacation?"

"Kinda; visiting my sister and her family," Manners lied smoothly. "My niece's sweet sixteen is tomorrow. They live in Poughkeepsie."

"Man, you must love them very much because to travel to the Great White North in winter? Better you than me, pal."

"It's not that bad," Manners said. "Besides, it's sweet sixteen, you know?"

"I do," the cabbie replied.

The rest of the ride was silent, much to Manner's gratitude.

* * *

  
Jared studiously avoided making eye contact with his teammates as they streamed into the locker room. Even Tom couldn't get much out of him as Jared refused to speak with him, but then Tom couldn't get him to talk more than handful of times since Jared had been given a clean bill of health and allowed back on the team.

Jared locked himself in one of the toilets to make sure he was the last one to get in the shower. He didn't have to wait long as all his teammates had busy social schedules. It took him less than five minutes to wash himself but by the time Jared was toweling off the locker room had emptied out completely.

Jared couldn't step out of the stall.

_I have to fucking get out_ , he yelled at himself. _I have to get dressed and..._

A sound slithered into the shower room. It was so slight Jared would have dismissed it before Wallingford. But not after. No, never after.

Jared focused harder and heard the noise again. Suddenly Jared remembered where he'd heard it before - in Jensen's house when the assassins made their way to the kitchen.

_That can't be right_ , Jared thought desperately. _The FBI wouldn't have pulled off surveillance, not without telling me first._

Would they though? He had refused all attempts to talk and Conniver had successfully tied up Singer in the courts. Jared knew he hadn't been subpoenaed because Singer didn't want him as a hostile witness, but he hadn't been cooperating at all, so why would the FBI bother?

_They gave up_ , Jared thought desperately. _Oh Jesus, I'm not protected anymore._

Jared clenched at the towel wrapped around him as his vision greyed out from terror. He didn't feel urine trickle down his right leg as he slumped against the wall. The noise approached closer and Jared was suddenly able to focus again.

A large rat ran across the floor, ignoring the human altogether.

Jared took another shower before calling Singer. "It's Padalecki. I'll testify."

* * *

  
**April, 2009  
Boston, Massachusetts**

Frederic Lehne looked at the basketball player with genuine awe. He knew the guy would be tall, but he had no idea how large the basketball player was.

"You look fine," Lehne said. "All you have to do is answer my questions. Remember, there won't be any cross-examinations like you see on television."

Padalecki nodded, tight-lipped. His face was alarmingly pale but there were bright, almost circular rosy spots on his cheeks. Lehne wondered if Padalecki was coming down with a fever. His attention shifted when a light over a door lit up.

Lehne turned to Padalecki and said, "Just tell the jury what you told me. They've been at this for two weeks now so they know not to expect Dennis Lehane. Remember that."

"Okay," Padalecki hissed out. "Let's do this before I chicken out."

Lehne guided the athlete through the heavy wooden doors. Like he thought once Padalecki saw the room was filled with human beings and not cannibalistic monsters, he calmed down considerably. And, Padalecki relaxed even further as he gave testimony. It didn't take long but the jury listened to the athlete with rapt attention, some quietly gasping when he testified about what had happened to him and Jensen Ackles. Lehne saved the love affair for last, as he needed to win over the jury's sympathy before slamming them over their heads with that bit of shocking information.

Again, Padalecki was honest about the details of the affair, which was what Lehne had hoped. He waited until the jury digested Padalecki's confession of being involved with Patrick Connor before continuing. Lehne watched color slowly return to Padalecki's face and inwardly smiled. The hardest part was over for both of them.

"Mr. Padalecki, could you tell us why you're here, today?" he asked.

Padalecki looked genuinely taken back by the question. "Because the FBI ordered me to?"

There were few smiles among the grim visages. "I'm asking what convinced _you_ to testify. I'm well aware of your initial reluctance to do so, even with the FBI's urgings."

Padalecki gave a hard look at him before glancing at the Grand Jury. He took a deep breath and said, "I was afraid, at first because I had so much to lose; my reputation in the NBA, my job, probably my home. I knew my family would stand by my side, but I was so obsessed with all that I forgot."

"Forgot?"

"I forgot someone else already lost his home and his work because of me."

"Who are you talking about, Mr. Padalecki?"

"Jensen Ackles, the writer whose life I sent into hell."

Padalecki looked at his hands and continued in a hoarse voice. "Jensen set fire to his house to save our lives. Somehow he knew what those killers were planning to do, and he kept us one step ahead of them until the very end. I left him alone because we thought we could get them as they come out of the house. I didn't know both men came through the front door. By the time I saw what happened it was almost too late. He was shot in the chest and left to die."

"So you're doing this for him and for Mr. Patrick Connor?"

"No," Jared shook his head. "I'm doing this for me. I can't live like this anymore. It feels like I got something living inside of me, chewing its way out. I can't sleep, all my food tastes like poached chicken. Hell, I stopped caring about what I'm eating since this nightmare started. My game hasn't gone down yet but it'll happen pretty damn soon. I can feel it.

"Everyone's treating me like a ticking bomb and they're right - I'm about three minutes away from exploding and leaving behind nothing but a huge mess and tons of regrets. I was basically driving myself crazy until I realized something."

"And what's that, Mr. Padalecki?"

"This? This testifying in front of the grand jury isn't half as scary as what happened that night. I wasn't afraid to lose my house, my job, my reputation as a member of the NBA. That night I thought I was going to die, Mr. Lehne. I was shot and bleeding to death when I stumbled over Jensen's house.

"I couldn't have been outside for more than thirty, forty minutes top but it felt like hours. _That_ was and is the most terrifying moment in my life. This - this is the truth and my parents taught me never to be afraid of the truth."

"Thank you, Mr. Padalecki, for your honesty and your courage. You may step down."

* * *

  
Singer studied the wealthy patrons loitering about Grill 23's bar. And yet, their wealth would be considered negligible when compared to some currently occupying the best tables, breaking and building empires like children do with Lincoln Logs. He looked at Lehne sitting across from him and once more wondered exactly how powerful a man he really was to have gotten one of the best tables in a restaurant that reserved the most desirable ones for the most powerful in Boston.

"I still don't know what you're going to do with the indictments, but that was something else," Singer said.

"Thank you," Lehne said, pouring red wine into their glasses.

The conversation traveled over safer topics as waiters served dinner. Lehne looked at his steak dinner with great relish.

"Give the Chef my compliments," he said. "This looks amazing."

The waiter smiled prettily and walked away, her hips swinging enticingly. But her efforts were in vain as Lehne's attention was completely focused on his dinner.

"I always wanted to ask: why do you have such a hard-on for the Mob?" Singer asked. "They consider you as a genuine threat because you've been going after them for so long. How many attempts on your life so far?"

Lehne shrugged and continued to cut up his steak. "Four genuine attempts and handful of half-assed ones."

"You still haven't answered my question."

Lehne's attention shifted from his plate to Singer then back again. "I dated an Italian girl when I was in college."

"Italian-Italian or Italian-American?"

"Born in Italy, came to the U.S. when she was five," Lehne answered. "She was a beaut, total knockout. I couldn't believe she said yes when I asked her out."

Singer smiled and said, "Go on."

"She hated the Mafia. Hated them with passion. Said they were the bane of every Italian American because of their notoriety. That no matter how many Italian Americans achieve great success, everyone's going to think 'Mafia' first when an Italian name is mentioned in the news.

"And she's right."

"So you're continuing her crusade?"

"Something like that," Lehne answered after taking a long sip of wine. "The truth is I hate bullies, Bobby. I hate them with a passion. Combine that with what Michela taught me, and I've got a lifetime's worth of grudges to dole out."

Lehne's explanation was just honest enough for Singer to believe half of it. "What happened to her? It sounds like you were serious."

Lehne's face flushed and it wasn't because of the wine. "I got drunk one evening and cheated on her. Michela found out and nearly cut my dick off with her sewing scissors."

"I see," Singer said. "Well, I'm sure your wife would rather sue you before trying that."

Lehne shook his head. "Nope, I'm sure she'll probably pull that stunt also. I like my women fiery. It's an dangerous preference."

Bobby raised his glass for a toast. "Here's to passionate women with solid morals."

"Amen to that."

* * *

  
"What's up, Mike?" Jared asked as his agent sat down.

Mike shook his head and said, "Doc Rivers is benching you."

"Why?" Jared asked, not too surprised by the news.

"The official reason is because they're worried about your health."

"I was given..."

"Your mental health," Mike interrupted.

"What?"

"They're saying you're not up to the strain. Not with the playoffs less than three months away, so they're bringing in Gaines."

"So they're saying I'm crazy because I said I like fucking men, or because I like fucking men I'm crazy?"

"Jesus, Jared, what do you want me to do? I tried, okay? But this excuse of theirs is bulletproof. You did go through hell in January, and you have to admit your behavior hasn't been the best since you got back on the team."

"What did Tom say?"

"Haven't had the chance to speak to him. Honestly? He can't do much, and do you really want to drag him into this?"

Jared closed his eyes. "No, of course not. The team needs him more than me."

"And there's something else," Mike added. "I could shoot the sons of bitches for this, but Ralph Lauren's not going to use your photos for the spring layout."

"I don't understand - how are they going to manage that?"

"CGI you out or something. They're bringing in a replacement from the Lakers is what I heard. You're keeping your salary, of course, but they're dropping out the option of using you for any future shoots. On the brighter side, _The Advocate_ wants to do a piece on you."

"I never cared about modeling," Jared said. "And I don't want to be the next poster boy for _The Advocate_ either. I just want to play basketball, Mike. That's all I ever wanted. I'll go crazy without it."

"Let me see what I can do," Mike said. "I don't like this any more than you, and the way they're dicking us around - it's about time we fucked them back."

"Am I allowed on the bench at least?"

"Yeah, but I don't know if that's going to stay when the playoffs roll around."

"Jesus Christ," Jared whispered.

"By the way, I found out who leaked your testimony to the _Herald_. Do you want to know?"

Jared shook his head. "It doesn't matter and I don't care. Not anymore."

"You really don't regret doing it, do you?"

Jared looked at Mike. "No, not for a second. It needed to be done. Maybe the one thing I needed to do more than playing ball."

"Okay then," Mike said, pulling out not one but two cell phones from his jacket pocket. "I don't earn my outrageous fees because I have a nice smile. Let me rattle some trees and see what falls out."

Jared managed a wan smile as he waved goodbye. The dogs swarmed him as soon as he sat down so it took him a while to find his cell phone. He scrolled down his now much-abbreviated contact list until he found Jensen. He stared at the name until his eyes blurred but Jared didn't call. He chucked the cell back into his gym bag and buried his face in Sadie's fur.

Jared had to face this alone. He couldn't drag Jensen into his hellhole, not again. Not when it nearly cost the other man his life the first time around. Jared thought about calling his parents but he quickly nixed the idea. The last conversation he had with his parents ended in frustration for both of them. His mother was nearly in tears because she knew instinctively she couldn't give what her son needed though Jared protested otherwise, and Jared was also close to bawling because she was right. There was no one he could speak to about what he had gone through, and he was afraid to see a shrink because he knew if a single word leaked out, he would have less than zero chance of regaining his status with the Celtics.

The abandonment and fear he felt in the New Hampshire woods swamped him again. Without looking he grappled for his cell.

"Hello?" Jensen's calm greeting reached out to him.

* * *

  
Justin Hartley watched Gaines pack his bag and leave the locker room. He followed the young man into the parking lot and watched as the point guard drove away in a brand new Mercedes SL65. So intense was his concentration that he didn't hear Tom walk up behind him.

"What's the rush?" Tom asked.

Justin startled before turning to face him. "I was wondering."

"About what?" Tom asked, worried.

"Probably nothing," Justin quickly answered. "Did you get a hold of Jared yet?"

"No, the asshole's letting his answering machine do the talking."

"Are you sure we shouldn't drop by?" Justin asked. "We hadn't seen or heard from him for over a week now."

"If I don't hear from him by Friday we'll swing by his house."

"Sounds good," Justin said. He looked at the empty spot where Gaines' Mercedes was parked. "Tom, do you remember the name of the FBI agent who swung by when the shit hit the fan?"

"Yeah, Bobby Singer. Why do you ask?"

"I got a bad feeling," Justin said. "And I want to talk to you about it."

"Let's go to my place," Tom said. "You're scaring me, dude."

"If what I'm thinking is right, there's going to be a lot of scared people."

* * *

  


>   
>  **Walk the Talk**  
>  Padalecki beating impossible odds  
>  by Lauren Cohan, May 19, 2009
> 
> It was just one week ago that the captain of the Boston Celtics posed the hard question:
> 
> How badly does beantown want to win? Bad enough not to care about Padalecki's sexual preference?
> 
> The nightmarish saga began during one cold winter night in New Hampshire, and it played out like a Frankenheimer movie: two hitmen courtesy of the mob, a witness, and a wheelchair-bound hero. The four men collided in the middle of a blizzard and the outcome was something no one could've imagined. And we didn't have to. Every private detail would be laid bare to the public eye, the end result being Padalecki yanked off the play roster.
> 
> Of course, the powers that be have a list of excuses for this decision, but they all mysteriously appeared after the _Herald_ revealed Padalecki's preference for men. Until then they were only too happy to let him play in spite of the many emotional and mental stress they claimed he was suffering. Maybe we Bostonians are too cynical but this columnist has to wonder why the sudden switcheroo. And, if the cost of losing Padalecki is worth whatever benefits they silently received under the table.
> 
> However, if you ask Jared Padalecki, he has no such questions hounding him. He's too busy training for the playoffs. Looking like his old self in spite of being shot, threatened, benched, and harassed, our resident Texan is so busy he barely has enough time to take care of his dogs much less ponder about his treatment by the management and the general public.
> 
> And yet, on the court, Padalecki looks actually relaxed. In fact, you could say that living under the pressure of expectations from millions of Celtics fans and fellow Bostonians is a natural state of being for him.
> 
> "Some people just thrive under pressure and Jared's one of them." Tom Welling admits with a cheerful smile. And he has every right to be happy. The entire Celtics team was thrown into chaos when Jamie Gaines, the rookie point guard, was arrested by the FBI for various conspiracy charges, including point shaving. After that, it seemed like an impossible task for the Celtics to recreate 2008.
> 
> Step in Tom Welling. Mild-mannered and soft-spoken, the team captain publicly ripped the management company and the city of Boston for what he calls their "collusion" to drive out his fellow teammate and friend, Jared Padalecki, from the Celtics. He didn't mince words as he pointed out the many dismal choices that led his team to where they are - minus an experienced point guard and nowhere near the level necessary to win the championship. Even the party boy, Justin Hartley, had a few heated comments regarding the management's choice to replace Padalecki with Gaines, especially since it has recently come to light that they didn't bother to do a thorough background check on Gaines before drafting him - a background check that would've revealed a long-standing gambling addiction.
> 
> So, what does Padalecki have to say about all this?
> 
> "I hate drama. I just want to play ball. That's all I want."
> 
> Got to admit, there's been more than enough of that for Boston in the last six months to last us another year. Or, at least, until June starts and the Celtics face off San Antonio's Spurs. By the way, San Antonio is Padalecki's hometown.
> 
> Let the drama begin.


	8. Chapter 8

**June, 2009  
Boston, Massachusetts**

Jared felt his right arm starting to tighten enough to make him wince. He'd been on the floor for over forty minutes but had no desire whatsoever to ask Doc to pull him out. Celtics had less than two minutes to hold on to their three-point lead, a lead that could give them the championship for the second year in a row.

Tom snapped a fake pass before throwing the ball to Hartley who did a right-one, left-two routine, which allowed Jared to slip by the giant, Tim Duncan. His move was distracting enough for the center, Ian Mahinmi to go after him in order to cover Jared. This allowed Hartley to drive into the vacuum left by Mahinmi. He missed but the clock was now down to fifty-two seconds.

Jared took his position in the three-two defense set-up and watched as Tim Duncan charged towards him. He really was frightening to look at when he was in the zone but Jared didn't care. He was no stranger to fear and this was nothing compared to what he had endured and survived.

Duncan passed the ball to Bruce Bowen and that was when a miracle happened. The ball brushed by Bowen's straining fingertips and went out of bounds. The Celtics had the ball.

Jared exploded into action, not paying attention to the deafening roar of the Celtics fans as the entire arena seemed to shake with their screams. He plowed through the Spurs and managed to successfully pass the ball to Tom.

4-3-2-1!

At one Tom made a shot. It was nothing but net and the Celtics won the championship by six points, not three. Jared threw back his head and sucked in a lung-full of air. Finally, he could breathe. Not that he had a chance to do so as Justin slammed from behind, lifting Jared off his feet and rattling him like a toy.

"We did it! We fucking did it!" Justin screamed on top of his lungs.

Jared laughed. Yes, they did. They most certainly did.

"Put him down you nutjob!" Tom shouted.

Hartley gave one more good shake before letting go of his teammate. Jared couldn't stop laughing as he watched the Celtics, once again, behave like five-year-olds with Doc watching their antics, sporting a wide, proud smile.

As the celebration died down Jared went to his seat to get a drink. He passed by Doc but the man said nothing. However, Jared saw a sly glance and a brighter grin so he knew it was all good. He wasn't sure if Doc Rivers ran interference for him, but Jared had it on good authority that it was Doc who made sure that the team was no longer yanked this way and that by the management after Tom's public tirade.

Jared bent down to retrieve his towel when he felt something light slap the left side of his head. He closed his eyes and counted. It had become common place occurrence during games that some bigot would try to hit him with whatever was handy, usually while screaming vitriolic comments on top of his or her lungs.

However, this particular attacker chose to remain silent. Jared was still rummaging through his bag when he felt something else bang against the back of his head.

Jared had enough and stood up quickly, eyes blazing, to confront his attacker. When he found his target, though, his anger dissipated.

Jensen was crammed between Steve and Chris, with Mike sitting right behind them. And he was holding four empty water bottles. Obviously Jensen thought it'd take a while to get Jared's attention. He and his friends' matching grins were wider than Jared's and all were sporting the eye-watering green Celtics jerseys. Jensen's looked about three sizes too large for him, and Jared thought a single good gust would blow him away, much like a kite with a broken string.

Jared suddenly remembered he was suppose to make dinner reservations at Oishii. However, he wasn't too worried about being remiss: he knew there wasn't a restaurant in the city that would deny service to him. Not tonight. Not after they'd witnessed him bleed, struggle, and finally stand triumph not just for himself but for Boston also.

Jared looked around the arena, watching fans and Bostonians celebrate for the second year in a row. He knew his fight was far from over, and he would have to retire sooner than later, but Jared couldn't care less right then and there. He closed his eyes and let the sound of celebration wash over him. It was only then Jared realized that in spite of the horrific January and the aftermath, or maybe because of it, this was truly his first championship season.

* * *

  
**February 2010  
Heritage Valley, South Africa**

Sterling eagerly opened the package from a bookstore in Cape Town and gazed admiringly at Ackles' latest novel: _Dreams Deferred: the abandonment of Japanese American students by the academic world during World War Two_.

Sterling looked up as the sound of a car engine roared down the dirt road in front of his house. He gave a wave of recognition as a sprite-like woman popped out of the driver's seat. Sterling still had to get used to Janice's shaved head and the tribal markings that took place of hair. He wondered if she flinched while she got tattooed. Probably, but Sterling sincerely doubted if she shed a single tear of pain.

"We have a bloody contract!" Janice hollered on top of her lungs as she ran to him.

Sterling grinned and gave a cautious hug. "That's great, Janice."

"I can't believe it! We have an Australian distributor! Do you know what that means?"

"We'll be making a profit some time soon?"

"It's good news, not a God-given miracle, Kent," Janice deadpanned.

"Hey, I can always hope," Sterling replied easily.

And that was the truth. Manners had found a black-owned vineyard in Heritage Valley that badly needed money to ensure its growth. It showed great promise but was facing harsh prejudices from all sides, mainly because Janice Marshall, its owner, was female and black. Sterling didn't hesitate. He loaned the money through a network of European banks and bought fifty percent of the company's shares while pouring even more funds to give it a much-needed boost. He then moved near the vineyard few months after, citing a devastating personal loss as the reason for his departure from the States.

Sterling wasn't sure if Janice believed his story and he knew she did a thorough background check on him, but Manners was meticulous in creating Sterling's cover and it wasn't long before Janice considered him equal partner in Silver Heritage in more than just financial matters.

Janice looked at the book in his hands and said, "Oh, is that the latest one?"

"It is."

"Can I borrow it when you're done?"

"Sure."

She eyeballed the thick hardcover and said, "The man doesn't suffer from lack of words, does he?"

"Believe it or not, you'll be interested in what he says," Sterling said.

"Oh, I know," Janice replied breezily. "I'm still finishing up the last one though."

"No rush," Sterling said.

Janice, sensing his eagerness to read the novel, smiled and gave a farewell kiss. Sterling watched her drive away, grateful that she was so attune to his moods and respectful of them. He opened the cover and read the dedication page.

> My tale was heard and yet it was not told,  
>  My fruit is fallen and yet my leaves are green;  
>  My youth is spent and yet I am not old,  
>  I saw the world and yet I was not seen.  
>  My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,  
>  And now I live, and now my life is done.

He traced poem with his fingers, and though the words were morbid they were also undeniably lovely. For a moment he imagined Ackles had inscribed _Tichborne's Elegy_ with him in mind. Sterling shook his head, amused by his foolish thoughts. He opened the door to his humble home, his attention already focused on the first chapter. Sterling planned to brew a pot of coffee so he could read through the night and much of tomorrow. He had time for such little pleasures now. And, maybe, some time in the future, he could find time for bigger ones.

**The End**

* * *

  
**Author's Notes**

To tell the truth I am only slightly familiar with the game of basketball. And much of the positions I've mentioned are interchangeable by the players. In fact, the best players are adept at multiple positions and could easily confuse the opposition. Of course this is probably _why_ they are regarded as such great athletes. The best shooting guard to date is Michael Jordan; the best point guard - the one and only Bob Cousy of the Boston Celtics. The man was a friggin' genius and had eyes on the back of his head.

Unfortunately, the sport of basketball has been continuously suffering from point shaving schemes, especially the NCAA which had been torn apart by such scandals. And there seems to be no relief in sight since greed is a huge motivating factor in both the athletes and the gambling industry.

However, being a Celtics fan, I have no problem putting on my rose-colored glasses whenever the lunch pail boys are on the court. C'mon, Doc, make it two in a row!!

[This](http://www.cs.drexel.edu/~gbrandal/Illum_html/elegy.html) is _Tichborne's Elegy_ in its entirety, and [ here](https://tspace.library.utoronto.ca/html/1807/4350/poem1839.html) is Alan Seeger’s _The Hosts_.

I haven't a clue what the names of Singer's and Manners' spouses are. I just pulled something out of the air and hoped for the best. As usual, I have a soundtrack and this time it's divided only into two parts! Enjoy and thank you for reading!


End file.
